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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859931">My Hope And My Fear Is Human Interaction</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garlicbreadbowl/pseuds/Garlicbreadbowl'>Garlicbreadbowl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Avid Reader X6, Cat owner X6, Character Study, Denying yourself basic rights to cope, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Humor, Making Friends, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Sugar junkie X6, X has a backstory and character arc regarding a lost loved one - no dead girl though, X unlearns the Institute's abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:15:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garlicbreadbowl/pseuds/Garlicbreadbowl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After some time living with the Director's other compatriots in the shared bunkhouse, X6-88 flies the coop after his coat is destroyed, and - unbeknownst to him - with it, the careful walls and steadfast identity he's tried so hard to cultivate. </p><p>See, when you move, you have to pack up everything from your old living space. Including all those skeletons in the closet, that you've kept under lock and chain. And those skeletons are none too happy to see you again. </p><p>A cat, a concerning sugar craving, a book club around bad erotica, a family found. A ghost behind his shoulder, self-destruction, a family lost.</p><p>Sometimes it takes agony to realize how lovely life is. Sometimes it takes happiness to face your pain.</p><p>And sometimes, maybe there is no difference between the two. <br/>~<br/>X6 navigates being cared for and loved after years of trauma from the Institute. And he has no sense of direction. <br/>~<br/>updates on progress found on tumblr @ dandy-apple-dunce</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>X6-88 and Curie, X6-88 and Male Sole Survivor, X6-88 and Piper Wright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. RIP: Coat. Died in fire.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The quarantine will force my hand to write. Idk when chapter 2 will get done, depends on what my teachers assign for this week. They've been really light-handed so far, though, so hopefully I'll have time. </p><p>If you're coming back from 'Skyscrapers Glow', eyyyyy.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Edited on 11/3/2020</p><p>The demise of his jacket sets a rollercoaster of emotions into effect. Of course, he has no idea what's to come.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all, my state went back into red and quarintine school is kicking my a**. So, to procrastinate doing my homework, I'm editing the previous chapters. Chapter 11 is in the works, but god knows when it'll get finished.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>'Atom Bomb Baby, Lil Atom Bomb, I want her in-'</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The cheery, rosy-glassed lyrics of some pre-war coping mechanism for 'Everything is going to sh*t!' were drowned out by splashing. A trapezoid resembling a man, seething, stomped in the puddles along the road. He marched with purpose, sending waves of rainwater like the puddles had wronged him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, the narrator got ahead of herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a rainy day in Sanctuary, and X6-88 was </span>
  <b>
    <em>done</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 prided himself for having a long rope. He was patient, calm and collected. But even the longest rope would burn when met with flame. Especially when that flame was persistent and would. Not. Let. Up. For a god. D*mn. Week. X grit his teeth as he recounted the incidents leading to the Event Horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, that Railroad clown that thinks he's funny kept finding obscure pre-war pop culture references to mock him. Who's Neo? Doesn't matter, X6 was the only one who didn't get it and that's why it was funny to everyone else. On Tuesday, top-side-trash, King Of No Kingdom, Ruler of Reprobates, Mayor of Goodneighbour did his d*mnedest to provoke him by insulting the Institute beyond the usual questioning of ethics. Hancock was still alive, so X6 had succeeded in his mission of 'Don't murder Director Boswel's friends'. From Wednesday to Thursday morning, MacCready managed to convince X6 that he was a flat-earther. That did provoke the courser. Mr. Boswel wasn't happy with MacCready having an impromptu nose-job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6-88 kicked a pebble with more force than needed, sending the blameless geological specimen into the bushes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the final straw was what they did that Friday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to check out the turrets in Abernathy farms, as required of his station as Security Chief in the Minutemen. Something about them misidentifying targets during combat protocols, shooting at their own handlers. The rain had kicked up that morning, so he wore proper rain gear instead of his courser jacket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he got back, he walked up to the bunkhouse shared by Director Boswel's make-shift family, and the dread of something hellish behind the bright yellow wood shot up his spine. His senses were superior to a human - he noticed every twitch, every micro-expression, a shift of muscle, a change in breathing pattern. Smells, sounds, visuals were more intense, perception being a key part of the courser's toolkit. X6-88 paused and listened. Clanking, popping and crackling, yelling. Smoke. He opened the door, and the sight that befell him was worse than he suspected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those idiots managed to nearly burn down the kitchen. But that was normal, MacCready and Cait should have been banned from the area long ago. That wasn't the problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left his coat on the hanger by the backdoor out to the yard. This hanger was in the kitchen. It was the only coat on the hanger, and was in grabbing distance of the flaming eggs. Fire. A jacket left carelessly. Idiots who assumed it was fire-proof, and thus an efficient way of smothering the flames.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poor thing didn't stand a </span>
  <em>
    <span>chance</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opened the door, he saw the others standing in a circle, staring slack-jawed at the corpse of his very identity. The badge of honor, the evidence that he was worthy, that he was better than the other synths, that he was good enough; melting into goop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They looked at him with a fear only given to Deathclaws. Mr. Valentine had stood in front of the young adults, arms outstretched to protect the young adults like he thought X6 would try to kill them. Maybe he would have, any other day. Instead, X6-88 turned around and stormed up the road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that brings us to the Town Hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>a Town Hall - you were more likely to find maps and tips for Gunner outposts than politics or community discussions. But, it was where the Director had his office, and where he was on weekdays. Down the hall, the door beneath the glimmering blue ‘GENERAL’S OFFICE’ swayed in the breeze from the window, the man X6 sought typing at his computer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Director Boswel glanced up at the rapidly advancing courser. Judging from the way he seemed to ready himself - cracking his knuckles, sitting up straight, turning off the terminal - he had expected this meeting. All the more reason for him to give X6-88 what he wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing in the mess of files, maps, odd trinkets, weapon parts, and Minutemen memorabilia, X6-88 fumed silently. Mr. Boswel waited for a moment, quirking a brow when the courser didn’t speak. “Is there something you  need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are unoccupied housing facilities around Sanctuary. I’d like to rent one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The General blinked. Boswel squinted, analyzing the courser before him. It was something X6 had liked about the Director. He always took the time to examine what was before him, always found secrets and truths. Nothing got by him. Some days, the General’s perception was aggravating. Mostly when paired with his incessant need to be emotional and open and caring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 pressed his thumbnail into the pad of his index finger. An old habit he had, something that kept him in the present. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Boswel seemed to be satisfied with whatever he had found in X6’s expression and body language; something X6 didn’t realize he had until he met the man. Thankfully, he didn’t pry. The Director motioned at the chair he stood behind. ‘Sit.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X yanked the chair back, satisfied in the squeak of the legs against the floorboards. The Director opened a drawer on his desk, rummaged through various manila folders, and retrieved a one labeling ‘housing’ in his chicken scratch. He spread out the files within on the desk, like playing cards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve plenty of places waiting for occupancy. I think you’d like this one,” Mr. Boswel slid a file towards him, “It’s in Concord, second story of the Mutfruit Inn, in the southwestern side of town. The area doesn’t get a lot of traffic,” He smiled, “And it has a lovely view of the new strawberry fields.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6’s heart twitched. The Institute had been given new priorities once Father passed. One new project was to clone non-irradiated fruit from before the war. Some samples of the previous abandoned project were found from the last head of Bioscience. The strawberries grew quickly, the fields around Concord blanketed in leafy green and speckled with red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost didn’t want to take it. “I have no preference. Anything available will do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Boswel tilted his head. “You have no preference, yet you looked like you’d’ve kicked down my door for a lease.” His eyes had that look in them, the one that made X6’s skin itch. The look that said ‘I want to have an emotionally available conversation with you, you socially constipated disgrace of a courser.’ “Do you truly have no preference, or do you prefer anything without the others?” The look increased ten-fold. “Did something happen? If you want to talk, I’m right here. I’m sure I could get it sorted-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach knotted at the idea of talking about the coat. Talking about the coat meant admitting it was all he had, and that was admitting he felt more than he should. He had to nip in the bud, steer Boswel somewhere else. “Everything is in order. I simply desire to live alone.” He didn’t care for interrupting the Director, but X6 needed those papers to have his name on them. ASAP. But the world was harsh. He could see the disbelief, the ‘are you sure?’ in Boswel’s eyes. The courser needed a trump card.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grit his teeth. “And...I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that independence would…” Feel good? No, he needed a human expression. “ ...be a breath of fresh air.” It wasn’t a question - another conversational figure of speech to mimic human interaction. It was the only way - if he wanted the apartment, he needed to appeal to the Director’s undying need to see the ‘I’m a Synth, I feel things and I want to enjoy my freedom’ aspect that was not at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>part of this ordeal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he were a lesser being, he would have choked upon seeing that Mr. Boswel wasn’t buying it. If he were a lesser being, he would have cried upon Mr. Boswel sighing in defeat, taking a pen from a ‘#1 Dad’ mug and handing it over with the apartment lease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6-88 didn’t believe in God, but he needed to thank someone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 stood stiffly in the hallway of the inn, holding the handle to his luggage bag and a duffel bag slung over the other shoulder. He fiddled with the key in his hand. It was this little brass thing, a room number and a bunch of mutfruit grapes etched into the large part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had an apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That...probably went against regulations. Were there rules against owning housing topside in the Institute? They had to stay in biopods when they weren’t active for anything, so it was never a question down in the Institute. Did the rules apply up here? Should he have asked Dr. Ayo?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 inhaled deeply, exhaling and focusing on the air entering and leaving his lungs, the rise and fall as his flesh-and-blood mechanics worked. He put the key in the lock, turning it and feeling an overwhelming sense of openness; a weird sense of everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Freedom. Independency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathed in again, shaky, pushing the door open and stepping inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment was empty. A ratty chair by the window, a coffee table. It was easy to tell that Boswel had helped in the building’s construction - blue trimmings and detailing were a calling card. Everything had to be blue, if he had a say in designing anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 took a step forward cautiously, eyeing the doorways to the left and right. He leaned down, setting his luggage on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping into the doorway to the left, a small kitchen and table overlooked a large window that framed the view of the strawberry fields Mr. Boswel mentioned. Everything was dusty, unplugged. X6 turned around, checking out the other hallway. It opened into a small closet at the end, a small bedroom to the left, and a bathroom to the right. There was nothing but the needed furniture, no sense of life or existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He preferred minimalism, but the apartment had the personality of that Railroad woman. Deseree? It was all function. He liked function, so why was he so uncomfortable? There weren't any of Valentine’s or MacCready’s little knick-knacks everywhere. Ms. Wright’s coat wasn’t thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair. Curie wasn’t huddled in a corner with stacks of books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood in the living space, the only indication that someone lived there being the bags he brought. X6 cracked his knuckles, fetching the luggage and hauling it to the bedroom to unpack. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Scathing Review</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>X6, irritated and bored by his bare apartment, goes furniture scavenging and is reminded of some things he wouldn't like to think about.<br/>(MENTIONS OF CANCER)<br/>First part updated on 11/7/2020</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Woooo, second chapter! </p><p>I'm planning this on a part-by-part upload thing. This chapter was the part of the story where X finished moving in, settling into his apartment. The next one will be more social, and dialogue-heavy.</p><p>ALSO: WARNING. BIG WARNING. Cancer is a subject that comes up in this chapter, and if it makes you uncomfortable, please be aware of it and the few instances of dark humor surrounding it. I apologize for any insensitivity.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>X6 could not have been more bored.</p><p>He paced through the apartment, desperately looking for something to do. Nothing needed to be cleaned, nothing needed to be put away, nothing needed any sort of attention. There was nothing to do. No tasks, no chores, no work. </p><p>He was made for work. Papers, tidying, anything - he needed work to stay sane. </p><p>He put his luggage away last night but if he had known that after, he’d have no tasks, he would have put it off. What made it worse, he decided, was that he couldn’t just find something to do. In the bunkhouse, there was always something needed done. Dishes, laundry, tidying up, fixing the heater that kept acting up and cooking all of them in their sleep. He didn’t need to be told to do it, he knew it was supposed to be done, but here…</p><p>Synths do not give themselves work. You do as you’re told, and only as you’re told. You do not finish your tasks, and take up another on a whim, you await more orders. But there wasn’t anyone to give him work. Until Mr. Boswel assigned him for another security check or the Institute got sick of him being assimilated into the Director’s make-shift family and dragged him back by the collar, he was workless. </p><p>He was only driven more crazy by the emptiness of the apartment. The Institute was minimalistic but at least it had people, flora, some sort of decor. His apartment was grey, totally empty and devoid of life. It was worse than the wasteland - the wasteland had signs of life even if that life was snuffed out. His apartment has less existence than a ravaged landscape being butchered every day. </p><p>It bothered him. Maybe it was some obscure courser sense, maybe it was boredom, maybe it was the fact that he’d spent enough time in the chaotic bunkhouse to see bare minimum as weird. Every surface had something - MacCready And Valentine had oddities and trinkets on every shelf, Ms. Wright left coffee cups and pens everywhere, Mr. Garvey had papers and maps scattered wherever he had been. The walls were covered in art and portraits. MacCready and Cait had a wall for signs they’d picked up; restroom signs - tacky -, pre-war shop signs - why? -, BoS propaganda they’d snatched straight from the Prydwen - admirable. </p><p>There was something. Even the furniture was part of being alive in the bunkhouse. Mr. Garvey had a quilt from his grandmother thrown over the sofa, Curie kept her experimental embroidered throw pillows on it, Hancock threw his coat over anything that would hold it. Every piece of furniture told you that there were humans there, people that lived and breathed and existed.</p><p>The apartment was a purgatory. </p><p>Empty and colorless and devoid of existence. </p><p>Was he supposed to decorate? On his own?</p><p>X sucked in a breath. </p><p>That couldn’t have been following regulations. Decor was considered a way of expression. Expressing yourself as a synth was a one-way ticket to the chair. </p><p>But god d*mn it, it would be something to do. He was an adult, robotic or not, making his house livable and showing that he was capable of living alone wasn’t that outrageo-</p><p>A lightbulb went off in his head. </p><p>Could he use the act of decorating and truly moving in to prove to Mr. Boswel that he didn’t need the others? Could he put some furniture in his apartment and show that all of the ‘ragtag family’ nonsense was a waste of his time and talents?</p><p>X paced rapidly through the apartment, a brilliant idea coming to him. </p><p>If he could make it look like he had a mind of his own, and was expressing himself, through decor, would Mr. Boswel get off his back about opening up?</p><p>There was no way he wouldn’t. X had spent enough time with the man to know that even the slightest hint of growth satisfied him. It wouldn’t be like he was doing it for the purpose of self-expression, just for the illusion of it to have some peace and not be pestered about his lack of emotions. </p><p>X turned on his heel for his gun cabinet, already mapping out the places he could scavenge from.</p><p>~</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Flipping through the Interior Design magazines had proven to be a worthwhile venture. They had been in decent condition, too. It wasn’t that he cared for personal expression, it was that he A: hated his apartment’s lack of character, and B: wanted to get Mr. Boswel off his back...even if only for a few days. The decor magazine provided different examples of styles and aesthetics, carefully designed to appeal to both a wide array and select types of customers. He knew he wouldn’t be able to replicate anything flawlessly, but the different style samples gave him ideas, and with ideas, he was at his most efficient. He flipped through the pages, skimming over the array of aesthetic choices until one caught his eye in the midst of the page falling to the side. X6 pulled the page back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The design was simple but bold and striking. Every room in the sample was minimalist, yet undeniably upper-echelon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He read the description.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>QUEEN OF MEAN CHIC</b>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you moving out of a home that tied you down? Leaving your ex-husband who didn’t support your career?  Any man that tried to turn a hustler into a housewife will be sweating in their button-up shirts when you bring them home to this sleek, sexy suite. Designed specially to strike fear and desire into the hearts of men, this mysterious, intellectual set-up will make you feel like the Queen in your Kingdom. With the minimal decor, dark colors, and sharp furniture, you’ll be telling the man at your heels that you plan to put them on his throat. And if he’s more than happy with that, the soft, Queen-sized bed will be the perfect place to test his worth to you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe decorating his apartment in the same vein as a single woman with a complex going through an ego breakdown wasn’t a great look, but it was a look he could stomach, and that would work. Mr. Boswel wasn’t a judgy person, it wasn’t like he’d break down his door and start gasping at furniture. As long it made it look like he was adapting to independence, it’d be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His only problem was that the style needed books. The photo very clearly showed that the shelves were to be filled. If he left bookshelves without the books, the Director would undeniably question it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every X6 bit his lip, thinking of locations for bookstores. There were plenty of libraries in Boston, most notably the Boston Public Library, but that was a hotspot for activity. He doubted anything he’d be interested in would still be there, or in readable condition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The furniture shop had been locked up, and thus everything was mostly untouched. All he needed was to find similar items to the design plan he had chosen, then find a competent crew to haul it to Concord. Meanwhile, the libraries of Massachusetts weren’t safe from the courser. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 tugged on the blade he had embedded in the raider’s skull, to no avail. It was a lovely weapon, personally modified by the Director as a ‘welcome to the group present’ when they first started traveling together. He stepped on the corpse’s chest, pressed on the skull with one hand, yanked the sword with the other, and finally freed the sword from the surprisingly durable skull. X6 smirked in self-satisfaction, giving the limp body a kick for good measure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This two-bit gang had fallen in a fashion rather pathetic even for raiders. Despite having the warning of company thanks to the bell that rang when he opened the door, their heads-up did nothing to give them an advantage. Huddled up next to the counters and whispering cusses at each other in a vain attempt of coordinating, it took mere seconds for the spray of his rifle to clear the area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wiping the blade onto his shin and returning it to its sheathe, X6, examined the location, gaze flicking to points of interest and potential threats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bookstore was on the smaller side, tucked away in what he supposed would have been the busier parts of Cambridge. Though he noted, with some concern, that the BoS’ police station wasn’t but a few blocks away. He and Danse weren’t more than colleagues, but he knew the man enough to expect him to glean as much knowledge as he could. Danse? Having a fully-stocked bookstore within a 5-minute-walking distance and not cleaning out shop? It was bizarre. If not Danse, why not the Haylen woman? Why not the Brotherhood soldiers stationed there now? They had to have known about it. Hell, Maxson may as well have been on his knees, the way he requested BoS access to the Boston Public Library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 prowled through the aisles, shoulders squared. One possible explanation for the lack of soldiers could be lack of structural integrity. But, despite some bits of roof and the worn, creaking walls, the place was in better shape than most buildings. So, if not fear of the walls collapsing with you under them, what was the deal? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tell-tale sheen of slick gore glimmered in his peripherals, a right mess surrounding a door near the checkout. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold on the floor lay a raider, blood pooling thickly beneath the body and seeping into the ragged clothes from the exit wound in her back. She was face-first on the floor, arms and legs sprawled awkwardly like she tripped into gunfire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 crouched down to examine the corpse. The woman’s skin was tinged purple, covered in a wazy sheen - so, hadn’t been dead for more than thirty minutes at most. Her pauldron has the carved insignia that the others did, so she wasn’t shot for being an enemy. Perhaps she wronged the group or its leader in some way? He frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. Possibly, but that didn’t explain the odd way she landed dead to the floor. Or why she broke apart into so many pieces, given the amount of odd viscera and flesh pieces around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The murmur of shuffling echoed from behind the bloody door, where the raider must have exited from moments before her death. X6 tensed, lurching for cover behind one of the checkout counters with a hand hovering over the sidearm strapped to his thigh. Quiet steps drew closer and closer, the sound changing elevation informing him that the door led into a basement, not a closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 gripped the pistol from its holster, sitting up and aiming down the sights at the door where the bogey’s head was likely to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a rough whistle, dissolving feebly into the air as a wet, coughing moan reverberated up the staircase and into the area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hummed quietly and nodded. Yeah, Danse wouldn’t have gone book-fetching if he had to deal with more ghouls than strictly necessary. X6 glanced around at the gore, and what he at first perceived to just be a bloody mess was, under further inspection, the sickly green and mottled flesh of the ghoul that had probably chased her out the basement and into suppressing fire. There was a pang of indignance as X realized they weren’t trying to coordinate because of him, but the shamblers downstairs that got their ally killed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps stopped right behind the door, harsh breathing staying still for a moment, before the zombie whimpered and went back down the stairs. X6 waited a moment, before creeping up to the door. He put his ear against the crack between the door and frame, biting back the curse as he estimated anywhere from twenty to thirty ghouls, judging from the different noises and footsteps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 never liked dealing with ghouls - it was like fighting bloatflies. Waste of bullets, waste of time. But, alas, if he wanted to peruse the aisles and shelves in peace, those ghouls were gonna have to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would never understand how the Pre-War Americans enjoyed shopping to the extent they appeared to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 paced the sci-fi aisle for what felt like the tenth time. He had one goal; get books. He was at a bookstore, where he was to acquire books. And yet, for some stupid reason he had no way of discerning, he had not gotten a single scrap of reading material. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t like he was a picky person, he was just practical. The science textbooks might have been of interest, if he didn’t likely know all of the material and then some already from Institute basic teaching. Some books in the history sections looked appealing, but history always made him...</span>
  <em>
    <span>quesy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to say the least. And the scientists of Synth Retention- oh, wait, Synth Aegis, as of Mr. Boswel’s reforming, never liked their synths learning about the past. Hell, X had seen some get wiped just for picking up books about the Civil War. The only other types of books that caught his intrigue were books that, if he were to be caught reading, he’d have to burn his apartment complex down with him and the offending party inside of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many options, and yet he couldn’t make a choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his standard-issue Minuteman Major uniform, the nearly-black blue leather and kevlar that Mr. Boswel had hand-crafted for each of his high-ranking soldiers in the army. Just - something. All he needed was something, be it a title of interest or even just something to hint him towards another he might be curious of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And at that perfectly timed moment, a flickering sign glimmered in his peripherals through the gaps of bookshelves. The barely-powered “EMPLOYEES ONLY” was a rolled out red carpet for the ajar door to the back room.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Books not set out yet, logs of the items in stock, possibly information useful to the Institute; jackpot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 bobbed and weaved between the maze of shelves, following the flicker of the sign. The hinges were rusted over, making the door hardly budge either direction. With minimal effort, he pulled at the edge of it, the door snapping off its hinges like it was cardboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He haphazardly shoved the door off the side, only to reel at the dust cloud billowing from the room at the movement and new lack of barrier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Making a face at the borderline-sandstorm, X pulled up the mask sewed to the scarf of his uniform, stepping into the room and agitating the centuries-old dust further, the cloud swirling around him like a ghost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a room of terminals, a place for logging hours and doing business expenses and orders. No stock, but still a place to find a lead. While most desks had collapsed, or had their terminals in less than usable condition, one had a terminal with the power cord dimly lit, promising its ability to activate. Brushing off the grime and dust off the chair, X dropped into it, the wheels too filth-encrusted to roll away from the force. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held the power button for a moment, and was relieved when the screen blipped to life. It took about three minutes for all of the information and data on it to be recovered by the system, but X6 was nothing if not patient, ignoring all of the many times where he wasn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The files loaded, appearing on after another before the computer neatly compiled them into the folders the previous owner has organized them into. In the corner of the screen, the employee terminal ID revealed the previous owner to be the shop manager, Sara Dennis. Only two folders were available, the rest not surviving the recovery process. The folder named business records would have had more useful information to go off of in his hunt for reading materials, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 scrolled down to the folder labeled as ‘personal’. Look, being nosy was his job as a course. It had nothing to do with his fascination with people's daily, mundane lives. Nothing at all, because he didn’t have such a thing. No, that’d be stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, look, one time he found himself reading the journals of a company-wide love affair involving drug deals and a janitor puppeting the entire staff,  and he’s been chasing that high since, alright? He wasn’t a gossip, like Piper, but he did listen in when she and Deacon had what the RR agent called ‘spill seshes’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, the man’s manner of speaking made him want to rip out his spine sometimes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The files loaded, revealing a menagerie of files, all titled with some sort of code. ‘TDKS2/5’, ‘ABT4/5’, ‘FMIC5/5’; X raised a brow, scrolling endlessly down and down and down. There were hundreds of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not short of intrigue and anticipation, he clicked on a file titled ‘TCOY0/5’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The file opened after a moment of loaded, the document started with a header;</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sara Dennis, author of ‘Salem’s Housewives’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Review of ‘The City Of Yearning’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Final Score: 0 out of 5 possible stars</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>X6’s shoulders slumped as all that interest deflated. They were just book reviews. As he moved the mouse to exit the file and go check out the business folder, the first sentence caught his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My good friend and fellow author Yasmine Jessop bought this for me while I was in the hospital, undergoing chemotherapy for my cancer. This book made me want to ask the docs to stop my treatment and just inject me already.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell? X6 blinked at the blunt wording, a small knot forming in his stomach at the mention of the disease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, after Father, even the mention of cancer was...</span>
  <em>
    <span>rough. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even if you loved Mr. Boswel taking up the Director mantle, everyone had loved Father. Despite his hopefulness and faith in Mr. Boswel, when the intercom came to life to inform the Institute of Father’s death, he was among the mourning crowds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the man came to pass, he was in the room. He’d gone to alert Mr. Boswel of his son's departure, and waited in the doorway of the room with his deathbed while he tried to hold on just a little longer, just a few more minutes to speak with his dad he ever got to know. Watched Mr. Boswel crumble like sand, whispering goodbyes and promises even after the light was gone and Father’s hand wasn’t holding My. Boswels hand back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched the Institute as he knew it die with Father, and he didn’t even know it at the time. Far too busy trying to not weep himself, trying to not ache in sympathy for the man grieving his boy whom he outlived. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the first time he was truly frightened. First time he realized just how temporary everything was. And how afraid he was to get used to Mr. Boswel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cancer was nothing in the early stages, simply an inconvenience to make right. But once it had a chance to set in? That was...less easy to simply care for. And Father’s cancer was hyper-aggressive. It was an incessant rot in him, eating him away. And they found it far too late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father was discovered to haven been particularly prone to cancer, and the results showed that it was either a strange genetic condition, or the effect of being cryogenically frozen and kept alive artificially. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Mr. Boswel could have the same cancer. He could have been the one with the odd genetics, but even if not, he was cryogenically frozen, and for longer at an age where cancer was more likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if Mr. Boswel had cancer, and they discovered it too late again? What if his came now, not later in his life like it did with Father? What if he had cancer even more aggressive? What if he died, weak and frail and decaying? What if they couldn’t save him either? What if a man who he’d seen take the Wasteland’s most dangerous enemies head on with a smile and sunny disposition wasn’t killed by combat or peaceful old age, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>his own body?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t feel. Despite his and the Institute’s best efforts, the thought of losing Mr. Boswel to an enemy he couldn’t slowly, painfully extract revenge on made his stomach twist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 felt a childish, irrational offense towards the Dennis woman. If she had fought cancer herself, how could she make such a miserable statement? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As pissed as he was at the long-dead woman for making him reflect on fears he shouldn’t have had, he needed to know what the hell was so bad about this one book to warrant such a comment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>X6 had never been so completely enamored with a piece of writing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sheer rage that the woman managed to convey in 30,000+ words was on a level that the courser hoped to achieve in speaking verbally. It was like Danse had gotten angry enough to dissolve into a rant, nothing but pure educated fury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The courser had never read a romance novel, but according to Dennis, the book being reviewed was </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘one of the worst excuses for romance in a genre known for being bad at actual romance.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> To his surprise, he actually recognized it. X had walked into the office of one of the Advanced Systems scientists, and she was so engrossed in the novel she hadn’t noticed his presence. When he cleared his throat, she jumped in her chair, screaming, and threw it at him as a reflex. Being a courser, he caught it, and was able to raise an eyebrow at the title before she sheepishly took it back. Thank god he didn't know it was erotica at the time. Walking on an elderly woman reading ‘a cheap wet dream fuel depot’ might have just killed him on the spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The City of Yearning’ was written by a Cambridge native, Patricia Albrecht, and was a top-seller in its market. It was about a Boston local moving back after college, only to be caught between the choice of a romantic partnership with three different men. Apparently a very common plotline, if Dennis’ complaints about originality were anything to go by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dennis’ final thoughts summarized the book as ‘something to hate-read when you’re angry at everything.’ X6 raised an eyebrow - ‘hate-read?’ The hell was ‘hate-reading?’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>knocknocknock</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shubsd- gimm’a se’ond, wha’ time’z’t ?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 stood patiently outside Ms. Wright’s bedroom door. It was his first time in the bunkhouse since packing and leaving. The journalist made noises akin to a Feral’s groaning as she navigated her bombsite of a room in the most un-awake state she could have been in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fumbled getting the door open, leaning heavily on the frame, barely supporting her own weight, as she squinted in the dark. “Whathell dya’wan’, X?” She slurred, though he detected no trace of alcohol on her breath or person. Ms. Wright blinked, bleary-eyed, breath slowing as if she would fall back asleep right there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a question. You were the most likely to have an answer. What is the term ‘hate-reading?’ ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ms. Wright hummed sleepily into the flesh of her wrist, using her arm as a make-shift pillow against the doorframe. “‘shwin you read sumthin’ ‘cause yawanna make funf’t.” The reporter mumbled, too tired to complain about being woken up at 4 in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Wright. Have a good night.” The courser turned down the hallway, satisfied with her drowsy explanation. He heard a ‘y’toooooo…’ yawned from the doorway as he was already down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost made it out of the bunkhouse, when he heard the thud from Piper’s room. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes, turning around and quietly jogging up the stairs and back down the hallway. Piper was sprawled out on her floor, amidst a mess of dirty laundry, hugging a pair of sweatpants like a teddy bear. The courser huffed, bending down and picked her up from under her arms. X6 lugged her the rest of the way to her bed, and unceremoniously let her fall onto her rumpled sheets.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 stood up, knuckling at his back as he smirked at his pristine handiwork, even if his apartment was in disarray from the DIY work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warehouse had most of the furniture, but improvising with the pieces it didn’t wasn’t something that would bother him. Some of the furniture that hadn’t fit the formula needed to be painted, but some extra work was never unwelcome to him. His jeans and shirt were covered in paint, speckles of black dotted and drying on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing left on his ‘moving in’ task list was getting the books he’d gathered on the shelves when they were done trying. Over in the corner by the door were a few stacks of boxes, filled with things he grabbed out of genuine intrigue or just to fill the space, though most were the former. While some he selected only for the aesthetic or prestige, X had found himself surprised by how much he was interested in when he dropped his standards and pretension. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a prickling anxiety at his throat. Reading wasn’t allowed in the Institute. Only for synths, that is. Knowledge was for the humans, the ones who wouldn’t misuse it or hurt people with it. They didn’t want information falling into the hands of a synth that could wreak havoc with it. God forbid they deviate. He remembered clearly, one synth who was found to have been distributing copies of </span>
  <em>
    <span>1984, Frankenstein, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fahrenheit 451.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That synth wasn’t even reclaimed. They dismantled the thing as an example. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, he was almost put in the chair when he brought back what appeared to be a screenplay of a play called </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘R.U.R’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the writer Karel </span>
  <span>Č</span>
  <span>apek. The instant he relayed into the Institute, it was slapped from his hands as threats of getting the chair swarmed the air. It took seven hours of interrogation until Synth Retention realized that he hadn’t read it, but was simply bringing it back for the library bureau archivist that had asked for it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He - as a courser, synth, machine - didn’t have anxiety, or unbridled fear aside from healthy caution, but he could easily compare the feeling he had, staring at the reclamation chair, being stared at by humans who thought him defective, to a panic attack. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>a panic attack, it didn’t match the symptoms, but his hands shook upon leaving the room for his next assignment. His hands shook for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weeks following the incident had been hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everywhere he went inside the Institute, eyes followed him. He had been awarded, many times the title of the most loyal, effective, and diligent of the coursers. The word got out that X6-88, the most ruthless hunter that cared about the Institute and its values more than the actual scientists who programed him to care in the first place, had been accused of going rogue. The black coat had been a target for the distrusting gazes of his fellow coursers, synths, the humans that held his leash and had pulled it tighter. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He had a few known-rogues - known among the synths, anyway - come to him, ask if he had finally turned, ask if he was okay. No, Yes. Over and over until they stopped asking him in the few corners of the Institute not under constant surveillance. No, Yes. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes, No,’ a ghost had whispered to him, ‘Yes, No.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span> X6 shook his head, willing the thoughts back into the corner they crawled from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had always wanted to read. Now he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made his stomach flip, but not in the way it had when he was being pushed towards the reclamation chair. Flipped like when Mr. Boswel gifted him the sword, or when Curie had found his ‘birthday’ and left preserved Snack Cakes in his room. A good flip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 gently brushed the back of his hand against the sleek black bookshelf, testing the paint. Perfectly dry, ready to be shelved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fetched the boxes by the door, unpacking them and shelving them in order of height and thickness. The sun finished its descent down the horizon by the time he was nearly finished himself, and plucked the last title from the last box. X6 held it out, deciding to leave it out. After all, it was the one he was the most curious about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After asking Piper about ‘hate-reading’ , he had gone back to that bookstore in Cambridge and found every book that the Dennis woman had given a less-than-savory review. The first one he planned to read, above all of the books he had collected, was the one that a cancer-survivor claimed to be worse than her disease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He headed into the bathroom, shedding his paint-stained clothes for a hot shower. Maybe he’d read ‘The City Of Yearning’  in a candle-lit bath with tea? Easy Saturday plans. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you couldn't deciper Piper's sleep-talk:</p><p>"*sleep gibberish* Gimme a second, what time is it?"<br/>"What the hell do you want, X?"<br/>"It's when you read something because you want to make fun of it."<br/>"You too."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Strawberry Donuts of War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Changed the fic title, so we shall remember it by re-using it for this chapter's title.</p><p>The cup X6-88 has is this. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QZSQKDT/ref=twister_B07V4FVPFC?_encoding=UTF8&amp;psc=1 </p><p>I thought it would be cute. Also, foreshadowing next chapter ;)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Changed the fic title, so we shall remember it by re-using it for this chapter's title.</p><p>The cup X6-88 has is this. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QZSQKDT/ref=twister_B07V4FVPFC?_encoding=UTF8&amp;psc=1 </p><p>I thought it would be cute. Also, foreshadowing next chapter ;)</p><p>Also also, sorry for how long it took. I had to study for a math test, and I'm trying to retake it, so it might be a while till the next chapter. I'm working when I can. Thank you all for the support &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sunlight peered into the apartment, past the striped curtains, illuminating the courser as he poured freshly brewed nettle tea into the only mug he owned. It was cat-themed, with a pink base decorated with gold metallic detail to look like a leopard and had two golden ‘ears’ at the brim. Deacon had gifted it to him after watching him furiously sanitizing any cup he intended to use in the bunkhouse, not trusting any of them to properly clean the dishes and not about to drink out of anything that might have been tainted with their saliva. </p><p> </p><p>He played it off as simply enjoying the convenience of his own mug, but he had fallen in love with it at first sight. </p><p> </p><p>X6 set the kettle back on the burner, taking his tea over to the chair by the window. He had made less-than-optimal progress reading ‘<em> The City Of Yearning’, </em>but in his defense, it was far more emotionally and mentally challenging than...many, many things. </p><p> </p><p>X always questioned people’s actions - not out of suspicion or confusion, really, just to try and develop a character profile for them. Always good to know who you’re dealing with. But he quickly found that, if he questioned the main character’s actions, he would go mad. He would end up like that Murphy woman, sitting on a porch and yelling about drugs and prophecies all day. </p><p> </p><p>The book was about this woman, named Juniper <em> (who would name their child that?) </em>coming back to Boston after college, and falling in love with three different men. The story followed her as she tried to make a decision on who to truly be with. That was fine, perfectly adequate. What was not fine was her complete lack of brain cells. </p><p> </p><p>One of her lovers was a troubled convict, on parole for robbing a liquor store. Jacob was a biker with a penchant for whiskey, smoking, bar fights, one-night stands, and emotional manipulation. Now, X6 didn’t pretend that he couldn’t be...<em> easily swayed </em> ...sometimes, but what the <em> fu- </em> he <em> literally </em> threatened to <em> kill her </em> and she <em> blushed </em> ! He said he was going to shoot her and she got <em> flustered </em> ! What kind of person is turned on by the <em> threat of death?! </em> It was a pattern - he’d treat her like sh*t and make her feel bad, she’d go to apologize or sort things out, and he’d turn on the charm and she’d be swooning. Jacob withheld affection - affection that he <em> knew </em> Juniper craved - to make her obsessed with pleasing him for even an <em> ounce </em>of attention! </p><p> </p><p>Of course, her other options weren’t much better. The second option was a banker named Charles, who was bland as bread. No, scratch that - bread has the potential to become something interesting, like a sandwich or whatever. Charles was as bland as Deacon’s instamash <em> (Doesn’t need salt or butter, his plastic a**). </em> He was completely emotionally inept, not caring about Juniper’s dreams of being a veterinarian. Charles had spent every page he’d been on trying to make her settle down with him, be a housewife to three kids. Chauvinist <em> a**hole </em> he was, he had actually managed to brainwash her into thinking that maybe, being little more than a <em> personal maid and baby-incubator </em> was her <em> real </em>dream. </p><p> </p><p>And then there was Bodhi. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> F*cking Bodhi.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bodhi was a hippie, active anti-war protester, advocate for peace and feminism - good things, right? Except he was also a drug addict who was living in a van and judged Juniper for her <em> ‘aspirations to work for and fuel the corporate machine’. </em> Bodhi constantly brushed off Juniper, spoke towards her like she was <em> ‘a slave who thought the plantation was as good as it could get,’ </em> according to Barb, Juni’s token black friend. Well, it’s what Sara Dennis had called her. X6 assumed that meant that Bodhi viewed himself as the ever-knowledgeable, wise, heroic liberator to Juniper’s complacency in the capitalist society that, according to the druggie himself, <em> ‘worked her body to the grave and her soul past the constraints of the universe.’ </em>God, it was worse than Deacon - who the hell talks like that?!</p><p> </p><p>Point is, Bodhi sucked. They all sucked. In X6’s opinion, there was better chemistry and hope for a healthy relationship with Barb. Barb actually cared about Juniper and supported her in her career. Every single man she was after wanted her to be their ideal woman, not a person who actually loved them and they loved back. </p><p> </p><p>So, Juniper had the choice of an unstable biker with a prison record, a 9-to-5-Picket-Fence man who just...had no personality other than sexism, and a condescending hippie who thought he knew more about female oppression than a woman going into a field that didn’t welcome her. It was like when Cait had talked about her exes. </p><p> </p><p>X6 settled into the chair, curling up with the tea on the side table and reading the book by sunlight. He was one chapter 7 of 26. So far, there had only been one erotic scene, when Jacob lured <em> (yes, </em> <em> lured </em> <em> , X didn’t care if she consented, that man was a predator) </em> Juniper to his garage and they...ahem... <em> defiled </em>...the hood of a car. It took him 3 hours, but he read it, godd*mnit. It was the most disturbing and foul piece of literature he had ever absorbed, but he endured each sentence and finished the chapter. He had laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling, for the rest of the day, feeling boneless and disgusting. </p><p> </p><p>He was reading a scene between Juniper and Bodhi at a pre-war grocery store called <em> ‘Whole Foods’ </em>with Bodhi being a d*ck about her choices of wine and pushing a rosé-superiority campaign, when someone knocked at his door. </p><p> </p><p>The courser huffed, setting his book next to his tea, and shuffled into the bedroom to put on a shirt. As much as he enjoyed making people feel insecure with his superior body type, it also made him feel far too vulnerable. The knocking persisted as he pulled a plain black t-shirt over his head. </p><p> </p><p>X might have taken just a little longer to reach the door than he needed - but it was a Sunday morning, at 8 A.M. Anyone knocking was probably there to annoy him in some capacity. As he turned the knob and opened the door, his face nearly came into contact with Ms. Wright’s fist, continuing its assault upon the wood. </p><p> </p><p>Piper was in jean shorts and a Vault-Tec tank-top, her hair back in a ponytail, and a strange box in her arms. The courser was graced with her signature half-grin. “This your little hidey-hole, now? Surprised you didn’t just lock yourself in the Vault to get away from us.” She nodded towards the pink and white cardboard she balanced on her hip. “Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re doing on your own, drop off a <em> ‘hi new neighbor’ </em> and <em> ‘enjoy your freedom’ </em>present. Slocum’s Joe opened down the street and they are divine.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 hummed, leaning down to let the reporter greet him with the kiss on the cheek she always insisted on. He had argued about it at first - especially when she wore that auxillary red lipstick that not even a nuke could get off - but, and he would never admit this to <em> anyone </em> , it became sort of...endearing. Nice. He still complained, though - keeping up appearances, and all that. <em> “ </em> You know, Ms. Wright,” He stepped aside, holding the door for her as she strolled into his apartment. “Most people say <em> ‘good morning’, </em> or <em> ‘how are you?’ </em> to greet others.”</p><p> </p><p>The reporter stuck her tongue out at him, looking around the apartment, clearly impressed with his superior decor. “Yeah, well, most people haven’t literally pried open a ‘Claw’s mouth while it was trying to have a Piper-steak. So, consider yourself a lucky guy -  I don’t waste my makeup for just anyone.” </p><p><br/>The courser still <em> reeled </em>from that incident. The reporter had lagged behind to write something down on her notepad, and, not paying attention, walked right into a bear trap. Not a big problem, until the Chameleon Deathclaw revealed itself right behind her and lunged. X6 had shoved himself between them and caught the lizard by the jaws as it tried to swallow Piper in one bite. Everyone was screaming their brains out, the Deathclaw was roaring and drowning him in saliva - it was a mess. X had stood over her while she shot into its mouth, its teeth just inches from tearing her apart if not for the courser straining to keep its jaws from snapping shut. His arms hadn’t been usable for a week after. </p><p> </p><p>He had cursed her out until they made it back to Sanctuary. She left ten boxes of snack cakes on his bed. And such was the origin story of why X6 was always covered in red lipstick. </p><p> </p><p>“I save your life from your own unawareness, and you thank me by d*mning me to hours of trying to scrub off your beauty products.”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly. Maybe invest in some make-up wipes, because you’re gonna get smothered now that we’re neighbors.” Piper paused, heading into the kitchen. “Well, neighbors again, really.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 blinked, one brow raised. “Neighbors?” </p><p>Piper set the box on the kitchen table before taking a seat next to it. No, not on the chair, sitting on the table like a delinquent. “Yep,” She hummed, popping the ‘p’, “Jesse worked his magic and, well...they’re giving me Nat back. So, I- <em> we </em>, need our own place here.”</p><p> </p><p>After the reporter published an article about Kellogg, Brain Virgil, and the Institute’s relaying, MacDonough had banned her from Diamond City all together. She had been kicked out, <em> permanently </em> . When Mr. Boswel tried to recover Nat, the mayor had informed him that Nat was in custody of the orphanage, and was <em> ‘unavailable for adoption’. </em> Holding Piper’s sister hostage, essentially. </p><p><br/>When MacDonough was <em> removed from office, </em> the orphanage still refused to release Natalie Wright back into her sister’s custody, claiming she was an <em> ‘irresponsible caretaker’. </em> Most of them <em> (‘them’ being those who traveled with Mr. Boswel) </em>had just wanted to take her back by force, but Mr. Boswel insisted that would be a bad idea after killing the synth mayor, commandeering the city, and tearing down the known hierarchy. So, they played the game of bureaucracy and waiting, going back and forth to no avail. </p><p> </p><p>X6 leaned against the counter, whistling lowly. “D*mn, it’s about time. Only took - what - the better part of almost a year?” The courser snarked. He re-adjusted, folding his arms. “Seriously, though. Congratulations on winning the battle of wits against an opponent that doesn’t know its a** from its head.”</p><p> </p><p>Piper smirked, swinging her legs from her perch. “Yeah, because the two are nigh inseparable. Like some weird ostrich from hell.” The courser couldn’t bite back the snort, one that made the reporter start giggling herself. “Well, it’s true! Almost everyone in Diamond City has their head up their a** more than they have it in fresh air. Maybe it’s why no one <em> thinks </em>, they’re not getting oxygen to their brains.”</p><p> </p><p>X tilted his head, moving to open the box the reporter had brought. “And here I thought you were <em> against </em> speaking ill of your peers.” Lifting the pink cardboard lid, the courser was attacked by a warm aroma, fleeing from the confines of the box. A dozen golden donuts sat flawless, the rich sunlight filtering in from the window bathing them in spotlight, highlighting their heft, the generous covering of powdered sugar, the steam filling the air with the smell of glorious <em> sin </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Piper snapped her fingers, her hand a disgusting intrusion among the view of the heaven-sent pastries. “X? Did you hear even one word I just said?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, now I gotta restart my lecture about how complaining about bureaucracy is different from insulting-” The reporter’s expression fell to something akin to unsurprised exasperation. She steepled her fingertips at the bridge of her nose, sighing as she realized she had just created a monster. </p><p>“X6-88. Honey. Sugarpie.” The woman stared at him, rubbing at her temples. “Are <em> these </em> ,” She pointed at the source of his inevitable obsession/new diet. “Going to be a <em> problem </em>? If I tell you where to go, are you going to eat vegetables? Will you drink water? Am I going to have to worry about your dietary habits like I do with RJ and Hancock?” </p><p> </p><p>X stuck his chin in the air. “I am an adult, I’m perfectl-”</p><p> </p><p>She raised a finger to his lips. “You are not an adult. You’re <em> barely </em>eleven. Even if you were an adult,” She closed the box, denying him the smell of sugar and something fruity. “You are an adult who I’ve seen eat nothing, for days, but candy. I’ve watched you eat a two-hundred year-old, five-pound cheesecake in one sitting.”</p><p> </p><p>He crossed his arms defiantly. “I may not be an adult <em> human </em> , but I’m not a <em> child </em> . I can feed myself just <em> fine </em>, Ms. Wright.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s in your fridge?”</p><p> </p><p>F*ck. </p><p> </p><p>Piper hopped off the table towards the refrigeration unit, only to be stopped by the courser blocking her path. “X.” She said in a low, stern tone, saved only for the regular trouble-makers of the bunkhouse. “What food. Do you have. <em>In. Your.</em> <em>Fridge</em>.” The reporter accentuated each word by getting closer to his face, standing on her tip-toes and staring him down.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t see how that concerns you.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you can see <em> why </em>I’m concerned?”</p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t be.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Prove </em> to me that I shouldn’t be.”</p><p>The reporter advanced, until X’s back was against the black stainless steel fridge. Piper was at his neck (that was as tall as she could get) and the courser had to keep his head up to keep his nose from bumping her forehead, exposing his throat further. The woman was a predator, and he could flash teeth all he wanted, but he was the prey. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d hate to have to get Nick on your case.”</p><p> </p><p>X’s sucked in a breath, clenching his fists. The detective’s lectures could last hours, depending on what it was that got his parental instincts firing. X6 knew how seriously Mr. Valentine took the well-being of them all - he was scolded for hours after the cheesecake. Piper was the lesser evil - if Nick saw his fridge, he <em> would </em>blow his circuits. </p><p> </p><p>The courser side-stepped, folding his arms indignantly. The reporter smiled in her eyes, that ever-knowing glint shining like a funeral pyre. Piper opened the fridge door.</p><p> </p><p>“X.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Ms. Wright?” He hissed through gritted teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you even drink water?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tea has water.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you drink <em> water?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do <em> YOU </em>?”</p><p><br/>“Said the guy who’s fridge has nothing but,” Piper opened the drawers and moved items, thoroughly scanning the contents of the fridge. “Cherry cola, snack cakes, and sweet rolls. Is there anything healthy in this apartment?” </p><p> </p><p>“Unlike you, my diet doesn’t affect my ability to carry out my missions.”</p><p> </p><p>“X. <em> The cheesecake </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“What about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“You puked for an hour!”</p><p> </p><p>“An hour that I was <em> off-duty </em> for!” </p><p> </p><p>Piper threw her hands in the arm, disbelieving eyes darting around the apartment as if she was looking for someone who heard the conversation. He opened his mouth to defend his life choices, but the reporter held her hand up, the other running through her hair, loosening her pony-tail. “No, don’t, nevermind, just...just eat your d*mn donuts, terminator.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Thank you. </em> Have a <em> lovely </em>day, Ms. Wright.” He couldn’t stop the smugness from dripping down his words, basking in another victory against the unrelenting Piper Wright. As Piper sighed and rolled her eyes, heading into the living room and out of his apartment, the courser lifted the box’s lid again like it was a treasure chest. </p><p> </p><p>The donut he plucked from it was heavier than expected, dense and slightly damp in the middle. <br/><br/></p><p>His body seized when he finally took a bite from the golden pastry, as sweet red jelly spilled over his hand. </p><p> </p><p>Holy sh*t. </p><p> </p><p>They were strawberry-jelly-filled. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Holy sh*t. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>In his mind, he could see the pedestal on which he held the four factions of the Commonwealth. At the bottom, the BoS. Above them, the Railroad. In second, below the glory of the Institute, the Minutemen tried to repair a world with scrap. At the top, the Institute tried to better it, to make a superior reality to what they knew and had once known.</p><p> </p><p>The Institute didn’t give him <em> jelly-filled donuts </em>, though. </p><p> </p><p>Would he <em> really </em> change his core values over <em> donuts </em>?</p><p> </p><p>In the silence of his apartment, he savored the sweet, slightly-tart jell- wait, <em> silence </em>? </p><p> </p><p>The courser paused, listening for the reporter walking in his apartment, opening the door, walking down the hallway outside, but nothing came. Surely he would have heard her leave. Was she still there?</p><p> </p><p>X6 waited a moment, than another, until Piper’s voice ever-so gently whispered <em> ‘what the f*ck’ </em>from his living room.</p><p> </p><p>He leaned back, peering out from the doorway, still shoving the donut in his face. Piper’s shadow spread across the floor and over the door, so she had to be standing by the windo-</p><p> </p><p>The window. The one with the chair and table below it. The table with the book.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nonononononononono. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He took one step back, the adjustment giving him a perfect view of the now-bookless table and Piper’s back as she held the torch to his reputation in her hands. </p><p> </p><p>Piper turned around, eyebrows in her hairline. The woman <em> saw </em>the bookmark, the evidence that he was reading it, not just using it for decor like he had planned to. He couldn’t pretend, he couldn’t play stupid. The book cover of a woman’s silhouette with three pairs of hands touching her didn’t help.</p><p> </p><p>The synth froze, no sunglasses to hide his eyes and no hope of speech -<em> the f*cking donut, godd*mnit - </em> went through every possible outcome in his mind. He could kill her - but Mr. Boswel would be furious. Make it look like an accident? She was standing by the window of a 4th floor room, the concrete would kill her. But then came the investigation, and Mr. Valentine <em> would </em>discover her cause of demise. Shoot her into ash and let her pile fly into the wind? He’d have to get the gun from his bedroom, and she’d know what he was going for and run, most likely alerting nearby settlers and bringing an investigation. </p><p> </p><p>Piper’s death would only make more problems. Bribe her? She was immune. Threaten her life? The reporter wasn’t afraid of him - <em> hell </em> , she’d been the first person to sass and backtalk him, <em> knowing </em> he was a courser. Threaten her sister? Bad idea. Bad, <em> bad </em>idea.</p><p> </p><p>“X?” The she-devil cooed wolfishly and batted her eyelashes like she didn’t know what she was doing. “What’s this?” She held up the book, acting like she couldn’t tell. She wanted him to admit it, admit his mortal sins, admit he had guilty pleasures like anyone. Admit he had flaws, shames and sore spots. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I swear I’ll kill you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Look, ya don’t need to be embarrassed, we all have our guilty pleasures-”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em> not </em>a guilty pleasure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, good for you! Do what makes you happy, no judgement here-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, that’s not what I-!”</p><p> </p><p>“Honestly, I’m glad you’re indulging yourself and not caring what others think. It’s good to just life your life the way you want to, enjoy what you enjoy-”<br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> “I don’t enjoy it!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Piper raised a brow, flicking the bookmark pointedly. </p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t-  I-I’m not- I don’t-” He hated being tongue-tied, <em> f*cking hates it, </em> it’s just like when they tried to wipe him over that one book years ago and it makes him want to crawl into a hole and <em> die </em> , it makes him feel <em> ( </em> <em> ‘machines don’t feel’ </em> <em> an awful voice hisses) </em> so small and pathetic and <em> weak </em> and there’s nothing he could do about it because he couldn’t <em> kill </em> her and <em> he didn’t want to kill her and his only option was to be humiliated and shamed and a failure- </em></p><p> </p><p>The reporter lowered the book and frowned and he <em> knew </em> she’d noticed his- his- <em> whatever </em> the <em> f*ck </em> those <em> things </em> were that happened every time he went past a line <em> he should have known not to. </em> Suddenly, her face turned to one of epiphany, and she snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! Is <em> this </em>why you asked me about hate-reading the other day?!”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t trust himself to speak plainly, so he nodded. It was somehow stiff and shaky at the same, though it may have just been in his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Ooooohh, okay, that’s- yeah, alright, I can see that.” Piper sighed, shoulders dropping in relief like she was the one on trail. “God, I thought we had another one for a moment there. Which, would have been fine if you <em> did </em> like it, I just…” She ran a hand through her pony-tail, loosening it further. “I did <em> not </em>think you’d be the type. Just caught me off guard is all.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 swallowed, something bitter in the back of his throat. “Another one?” He tried to will himself to move, but his joints seemed iced over, bones atrophied.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Curie and I are suckers for these types of books. Well, <em> she </em>actually likes them. I just read them when I need to take my mind off of things.” </p><p> </p><p>The courser felt the ice melt, the acidic knot in his adam’s apple fading as the voice whispering was silenced. “Have you read that one…?”</p><p> </p><p>Piper chuckled. “Yeah. Still am. Could hardly make it past chapter 4. Looks like you’re braver than I.” She flicked the paper bookmark. “I can’t stand Juniper’s inner-monologue. It’s like the author forgot she told us a guy was good-looking in the <em> last </em> sentence.” The reporter set the book down, clasping her hands together like she was swooning and batted her eyelashes. “‘Jacob looked at me and it was <em> hot </em> . His eyes had a look in them that was totally <em> hot </em> . The way his pants fit his crotch was so <em> hot </em>.’” Piper mocked, putting on a nasally valley-girl voice. </p><p> </p><p>The ghost of a snicker snuck past the defenses the synth was lowering, realizing he wasn’t on trial, he wasn’t about to be wiped, he wasn’t being shamed. It caught her off guard, but she got it. She understood.</p><p> </p><p>Something weird happened in his ribcage. </p><p> </p><p>The reporter seemed unaware of the freakout X6 almost had, beamed at the fact that she made him laugh, even if only slightly. But unlike the others, who would have mocked him and dragged on and on about how <em> big bad X6 had feelings and laughed like everyone else, </em> she just...she let him be. </p><p> </p><p>It was nice.</p><p> </p><p>That thing happened in his ribcage again. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, that’s totally how she writes! And god, the descriptions- that one scene in the bar with, <em>uhhh</em>, what’s-his-face?” Piper snapped her fingers, biting her lip. “The grungy guy, the one that called Juniper an eco-facist for having a plastic water bottle? Braxton?”</p><p> </p><p>“Bodhi?”</p><p> </p><p>She gave him a pair of finger-guns, winking. “<em> Yesss </em>, that tool. He’s totally the worst, right?”</p><p> </p><p>He had never felt so understood.</p><p> </p><p>“Do we agree that Barbara is the best romantic candidate?” X6 offered, a verbal handshake of sorts, testing the waters and peeking out from carefully built walls. </p><p> </p><p>Piper gasped, clasping her hands over her heart, actually swooning. “Oh my god. A man of taste, I see.” She frowned, leaning towards him and whispering. “Curie thinks she should be with Jacob.”</p><p> </p><p>X recoiled. He leaned against the doorframe, defensiveness fading into thin air. “You’re kidding.” The courser returned to the pastry, almost forgotten. </p><p> </p><p>“Nope! She thinks that all he needs is time, patience, and therapy.”</p><p> </p><p>He choked on the donut. <em> “You’re kidding.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“She’s a Miss Nanny, it’s her instincts to coddle and comfort angry screaming children. I told Hancock, he said he’d go explain to her the issue with <em> ‘fix-it’ </em>relationships and making a partner a project.”</p><p> </p><p>The ghoul had shared many stories of people trying to do the very same with him, making him more than qualified to teach Curie about the dangers of playing therapist to your lover.</p><p> </p><p>Not that X6 would know, either. </p><p> </p><p>“Good. I’d hate for wasteland scum to take advantage of her like that.” </p><p> </p><p>The reporter’s eyes flashed, the only thing that alerted him to his slip up. Before he could pull up some impersonal reason for his concern, like <em> ‘She’s the only doctor of our group’ </em> or <em> ‘She’s an essential part of the Institute’s new projects and missions’ </em> , Piper leaned back on the table with her hands, crossing her legs. “I don’t think we have to worry about her, if resident bada** X6-88 is watching her back.” She smiled, small and sweet. Then, she paused, eyeing him for a moment. Her smile grew into a broad smirk, mischievous and coy. “You know...Curie and I have a weekly little get-together. We pick a book, read it, and meet up every chapter. We <em> just so happen </em> to be reading <em> this </em>one.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh no. </p><p> </p><p>“You wanna join?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh no.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll have to decline that offer.” X6 replied coolly. “I’d prefer to keep our relationship professional. Having a book-club goes against that interest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dude. We’ve saved each other’s life multiple times. I just bought you donuts and watched you nearly have an anxiety attack. Safe to say this relationship hasn’t been professional since...ever.” Piper glanced at the clock on the wall. She sighed, getting up and heading to the door. “Look, I gotta go, but the offer stands. It would make Curie really happy if you joined in. It would make Jesse really happy, too!” </p><p> </p><p>He rolled his eyes, turning back into the kitchen and intentionally ignoring her<em> ‘anxiety attack’ </em>quip. “Have a good day, Ms. Wright.” </p><p> </p><p>She opened the door, one foot in the hallway. “You too. Also, Curie makes chocolate-mint eclairs for our meetings.” The door fell shut as she slipped out. </p><p> </p><p>The courser used every cuss word he knew as he ran down the hallway after her. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I based X6's freakout after my own. As someone who's emotionally repressed and obsessed with keeping up appearances myself, the smallest sparks (people noticing perceived weakness or flaws) can birth the largest explosions. :'P</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Beach, brutes, and cat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The one time he didn't regret going to Nordhagen Beach.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title is a reference to 'bell, book, and candle' the movie.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The waves gently rolled back and forth against the shoreline, drowned out over the noises of Nordhagen Beach. BoS Vertibirds coming and going, the howling of drunk soldiers celebrating who-knows-what, music blasting from the Pointman’s Privilege, power armor creaking, CO’s barking at soldiers gone AWOL - X6<em> couldn’t handle it. </em></p><p> </p><p>The noise would be overwhelming for <em> anyone </em> , but coursers had superior hearing. His head was flooded with... <em> senselessness </em> , nothing but <em> noises </em>melting into each other, into indistinguishable chaos bouncing in his skull until all he could hear was his heartbeat, BPM increasing every second. </p><p> </p><p>“~~~~~~~~~”</p><p> </p><p>X6 crossed an X over his mouth with two fingers, the silent signal the Director had given him. <em> ‘I need you to not speak to me, I’m over-burdened with information and surroundings and I can’t handle listening or responding.’ </em> It was such a <em> freeing </em> gesture. Scientists in the Institute had no patience, demanding answers as soon as the question was in the air, screaming for responses when your head could barely sort out the blood traveling in your veins. X6 had always tried to answer swiftly, even if the sound or brain-power used made the space behind his eyes entangle even more. And then Mr. Boswel strolled out from the Vault, and waited considerately the first time he had seen the synth shut down and lose his verbabilty. Mouthed <em> ‘take your time’, </em>gave him the few minutes he needed to sort out information and stimulus so he could absorb more. Worked out hand signals he could use to express himself and let the man know what he needed.</p><p> </p><p>He shut his eyes, bright light, a flurry of colors, and incoherent movement working with the fracas to turn his world into static.</p><p> </p><p>An arm was thrown over his shoulders, coaxing him towards what he knew would be somewhere quiet and still, a safe haven in the middle of hell. A year or so ago, anyone who touched him when he was like this would have been hurt. Severely. Now, he had a reason to believe that someone would touch him without malicious intent.</p><p> </p><p><em> ‘And it isn’t just him’, </em> A small voice urged, <em> ‘The others would be the same if you let them be.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>The sound was muffled, movement only brief slivers as the two walls shielded the two men from the chaos in the streets. X6 pressed his back against the wall, focusing on counting backwards from 100, trying to give his mind something to focus on. Director Boswel was silent, standing opposite of him, giving the courser time and space to center himself. The other man pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead, and the <em> look </em>reared its ugly face, all affectionate concern in dark blue eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, the noise subsided. His heart slowed.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to head home?” </p><p> </p><p>He glanced up past the sunglasses sliding down his nose at the other man.</p><p> </p><p>“We haven’t conducted our business here yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, we haven’t,” Mr. Boswel reached out, taking the courser’s hand into his own, squeezing lightly. “But if you are over-stimulated, we can leave and come back another time.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 scowled, flexing his hand free of the Director’s. “If mirelurks come from the sea, there won’t be <em> ‘another time’. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel hummed, opting to not push any further. “Very well, then. We just need to check by the waterline - ‘s-where we’re most exposed, after all.” He adjusted a dial on his Pip-boy, “Crabs were seen down to the south from here, possibly a Queenie. We’d be wise to start our inspection, and any needed defensive construction, beneath the water line, keep them from laying eggs on the stilts in Residential.”</p><p> </p><p>The courser knew this already. Mr. Boswel knew that - relaying the mission parameters to further focus and center him, just like he had done many times before. </p><p> </p><p>X6 would kill to know how the man learned to do that. Learned he needed that. </p><p> </p><p>Nordhagen beach, once little more than a shack and accumulated litter, had become a key <em> ‘Cap-cow’ </em>, as Mr. Boswel had put it. Right down the road from the BoS-occupied Fort Strong and across the bay from the Prydwen, turning the area into a party-town, like Goodneighbor without the chems and crime, was an ingenious way of stealing caps from their Brotherhood allies. A few bars, armories, hotels, and garages had been all it took to rake in thousands of caps each month. </p><p> </p><p>The problem was that the settlement...wasn’t really a <em> settlement </em> . Not a <em> Minutemen </em> one, anyway. The BoS were the predominant force along the whole cape - some people didn’t know the Minutemen were involved at all. Giving Maxson even <em> one square foot </em>of land was too much, in the courser’s opinion. The soldiers ran the place, the actual locals being shoved to the back, to the waterline, living in stilt towns, lost in the chaos of lights and noise. </p><p> </p><p>And when you live in stilt houses out in the water, you’re flirting with death in the form of mutated lobsters. </p><p> </p><p>Maxson had promised that his soldiers would be available if need be, should the beach be under attack by mirelurks. Mr. Boswel asked if he could get someone to check for signs of the things. Maxson proved to be an <em> incompetent, lying sack of sh*t </em> that they should have killed at Listening Post Bravo. Told them that the BoS didn’t have time for <em> ‘their little boy-scout ops’, </em>meanwhile he’s playing Hero Of Legend, sitting in a blimp named from a children’s story the man thought his life to be.</p><p> </p><p>X6 sighed, more releasing tension than expressing annoyance. It was good that he was internally b*tching about the 20-year-old<em> ‘Elder’, </em> meant his head was clear.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we starting from the south and working up the cape?”</p><p> </p><p>The Director smiled, undoubtedly happy that he, yet again, <em> ‘helped’ </em> the courser. He pushed his own sunglasses back down from his forehead, the gesture for <em> ‘Back to Business’</em>. Mr. Boswel leaned out from the alley, looking for the most optimal routes for an over-stimulated courser with a penchant for shooting things that annoyed him. The man sucked in a breath, jogging to the other end and checking if the other side was better. </p><p> </p><p>“This way - less Power-boys.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ~ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They had waded through an infestation of BoS soldiers because said wasteland trash had misidentified tires in the sea. </p><p> </p><p>X6 had never been so noticeably angry in his life. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel patted him on the back as they walked back down the cape, skirting the line between the sleepy residential stilt-town and the bustling streets. “Hey, at least <em> you </em>can get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>The courser looked at the other man, mouth a firm line and eyebrows drawn. “The report was false.” X6 huffed, remembering who he was speaking to. “But, you’re going to take defensive measures anyway, because letting these idiots become crab-food would be just <em> horrible </em> .” He bit out, tone dripping with bitter sarcasm. Make no mistake, the Director’s insistence on fixing problems before they existed was one of his best traits - but his insistence on helping and protecting <em> everyone</em>, even the <em> brainwashed sheep</em>, was not. </p><p> </p><p>The Director hummed in confirmation. “There’s no harm in keeping ahead, yes? May as well do it while I am here, instead of dragging you back here later to shoot fish.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to shoot <em>something</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>A hearty bark of a laugh. Mr. Boswel kicked a pile of soft, wet sand, running his hand through shaggy ink-colored hair. “Can’t say I agree or condone it, but I acknowledge that sentiment.” The man lifted his arm, fiddling with dials and switches on the Pip-boy, chewing on his lip as he did. He looked up at the sky, tapping on the portable computer. “If you need something to do - and by <em> something </em>, I mean asserting your combat prowess over everything under the sun - I heard about Greenies hovering around Reverie. Find and vanish if you’re bored. Their boss has a gatling, so maybe only go half-easy on them, yeah?” Mr. Boswel chuckled at the way X6 puffed up under the flattery. </p><p> </p><p>The easiest way to get on the courser’s good side wasn’t to be affiliated with or in support of the Institute, contrary to popular belief. It was to stroke his ego. It was also a good way to coerce him into doing Minutemen work. </p><p> </p><p>F*ck Mr. Boswel and his charisma. </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>God, what was it with everything not noticing lately? First the raiders in Cambridge, now the mutants. </p><p> </p><p>He had been standing there, behind the 5 mutants, for a few minutes, simply watching them. They were hovering near a small crack in the wall of the subway station, leading into a maglocked room. One was crouched, trying to reach into the crack.</p><p> </p><p>The courser, bored and itching to hurt something, pulled out his laser rifle and whistled.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“WHAT?!” “WHO’S THE-” “TINY HUMA-”  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Not very poignant last words. Gatling-Laser didn’t even get a chance to rev up. </p><p> </p><p>X6 normally would have toyed with them - hide in the shadows and throw a can across the room, sneak up into rafters and whisper things like <em> ‘He said you’re weak!’, ‘They’re invisible, quick, swing your hammer at that guy’s back before they sneak up on him!’, </em> stuff to cause friendly-fire. He tried it once with Railroad agents; it was great fun, they thought they had gone insane. </p><p> </p><p>X stepped over melting green flesh, traversing the bodies and dropped weapons to the terminal locking the door. There had to be something in there for them to have been that focused on it. It booted up, and although laggy, the security was surprisingly high-end for what was likely a janitor’s closet or office. No match for a courser, though - the locks released and the door opened remotely. </p><p> </p><p>Flicking on the light of his rifle, his assumption was correct - it was a janitor’s closest. He stepped past the threshold of the door frame - Mutants were territorial, but it was unlikely they would have even noticed the door if something hadn’t alerted them to the room. They had clearly wanted something in there, but what?</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t find anything but the basic cleaning supplies, hidden bottles of liquor, and a first aid box on the wall. Mutant’s didn’t use stimpacks, did they? Would they have even seen it from the crack? X6 turned around to judge the hole in the wall’s sightlines, only to see something small and white.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Bwrrr?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a siamese, a fresh wound across its nose that would scar. It stared at him, frozen, keeping low to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mrwwoww.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>X raised a brow. The animal had nearly been Mutant-food, yet still felt brave enough to stay around and converse. He crouched down, arms resting on his knees. The cat slowly stood, tilting its head. The courser removed his glove. Cautiously, he outstretched his hand, offering his knuckles for the creature to adjust to his scent. </p><p> </p><p>The cat, likely a kitten from the size, jumped back, but didn’t run. It hesitated, but crept forward, until its whiskers brushed against his skin. He gently brushed his fingers against its cheek. It rubbed against him, leaning into the touch.</p><p><br/>
Interesting. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, it was all purrs, dancing in place as all of its paws kneaded against the dirty concrete. The kitten advanced, climbing up his leg to try and grab at his face, eyes blinking slowly.</p><p> </p><p>He was f*cking melting. </p><p> </p><p>~ </p><p> </p><p>Of course he took it home. </p><p> </p><p>Upon being released from his arms, the kitten had run all over the apartment, taking in the new scenery and smells. Eventually, she had worn herself out, and trotted over to him as he read a book. She looked up at him, and without asking, lept up into his lap, shoving herself in front of the screenplay of some romance movie like she had more ego than he did. X6 watched fondly as she sleeply kneaded her front paws, curled into a crescent. He stroked around her shoulders - immediate reaction. Purrs increased in speed and strength, all paws started fanning as her claws dug into his jeans. He rubbed at her cheek, she leaned into his hand, grabbing it with her paws and trying to burrow into his palm. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘I’m gonna lose my sh*t’.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It took only a few moments of petting before she was dead to the world, cuddling up in his lap with her head cradled by his hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘I am going to lose my sh*t.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t bother fighting the small smile that settled on his face, turning back to the book. Curie had been overjoyed to hear he was joining them in their little book-club, even promised to make pumpkin pie as a welcome to their new addition. Piper had told him to stop where he was in ‘The City Of Yearning’ so she and the doctor could catch up, so he had been reading other things while he waited. The small, almost-magazine X6 was reading was the screenplay to some 20th century  comedy-romance, called <em> ‘Bell, Book and Candle’. </em>It was about a witch who used her siamese cat to cast a love spell on her neighbor. X glanced at his own siame-</p><p> </p><p>...his own siamese. He had a cat - a pet. A personal companion. </p><p> </p><p>Huh. </p><p> </p><p>Pets needed names, right? The courser didn’t have a clue what he could name her. He wasn’t like Danse, who named his weapons after virtues, or Cait, who named her bat Whiskey and her shotgun Vodquila. X6-88 did not name things. He never had something of his own to name. </p><p> </p><p>He put it aside. The cat had only been in his apartment for about two hours - the necessary supplies and items were more important, naming her could be done later. But maybe…</p><p> </p><p>X6 considered the screenplay. In the movie, the witch’s cat was a siamese, named Pyewacket. </p><p> </p><p>...he could call her <em> ‘Pie’ </em>as a nickname.</p><p> </p><p>The small smile grew into a grin. The courser looked around. He was in his own place, surrounded by books, with a cup of hot tea on the table and a warm kitten, Pyewacket, on his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Was that what people meant when they said their heart felt full?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for how short this was, I wanted to upload the cat chapter ASAP. I sort of based Pyewacket (Pie-UH-whack-it) on my own cat, Peanut. She isn't a siamese though. Her brother, Butter, is a carrot-point, but he's a little too dumb to understand and draw inspo from.</p><p>Fun fact: I originally was going to give X two prissy oriental shorthair siblings, named Temperance and Diligence. </p><p>Fun Fact 2: I drew from my own experiences being overwhelmed by my surroundings. Having a 'Shut up I need to chill for 1 min' sign is what would really be a lifesaver for me. </p><p>Fun Fact 3: X actually reminds me of Peanut. When we first got her from the shelter, she was a stray with her brother. Butter adjusted and socialized easily, but she was terrified for weeks. Until one day, she came out from under the couch, looking up at my mom, and jumped up on her lap for cuddles. She wanted love and affection, but she was scared of us and just didn't know how to ask for it. Kinda like how I write our fav courser.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Personal Responsibility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Life's good. Unacceptable.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thin lines of light filtered into the room, the moon and stars outside in the indigo sky barely visible past the blinds that gently swayed from the late-night breeze. The whisper of wind hardly bothered the kitten curled up next to his legs, but for the courser, staring up at the ceiling, the ghosts of things he would have rather forgotten drifted on the gusts.</p><p> </p><p>It was 3:47 A.M and X6-88 was numb.</p><p> </p><p>Of course he was, it was only natural for an unnatural being. A machine made of flesh and bone, computer running on vein-wiring and a nervous-system circuit board. That was what he was, no matter what others might think, that was all he could be. </p><p> </p><p>No matter what he did, that was he was meant to be.</p><p> </p><p>What he should have always been. </p><p> </p><p>He hated these days. They happened only once or twice a year, and he had never let them get in the way of his missions, never let anyone know they happened at all. It was easy - the hardwiring in his brain had malfunctioned. That’s what it was. His database had been temporarily corrupted, the chemical coding had missed a step or failed to produce the needed reaction. It was easy to excuse it. </p><p> </p><p>And then Mr. Boswel came from the Vault and suddenly it wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>The first<em> (and </em> <em> last </em> <em> , he would make sure of it) </em> time he had one of these days while traveling and working alongside the Director and his crew, Mr. Valentine was the one who noticed. X hadn’t been surprised - the synth was a detective, changes in behavior, no matter how small, were constantly what he was looking for. Valentine had approached him, away from the others, and asked if he was <em> ‘holding up okay’. </em> The courser had given the usual excuse; Database corrupted, coding scrambled. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Most people call that ‘feeling down’.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And suddenly it wasn’t something he could brush off. Suddenly he was expected and encouraged to feel. When he was around the scientists, they knew he was a machine. They treated him like a machine. He<em> convinced himself </em>that he was a machine, and machines didn’t feel, so neither did he. </p><p> </p><p>When he was around the Director? He was...not <em> human </em> , they didn’t enforce that on him. But he was treated as something sentient, intelligent and aware and worthy of respect - and capable of feeling. He was <em> expected </em> to feel. They <em> told him </em>he could feel. And suddenly it was harder to convince himself otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>Which is why it was hard for him to pull himself out of those days, lately. Why those days kept coming more and more. There was no fear of...<em> anything </em> . He could feel. He could have opinions. Hell, he could probably <em> cry </em>and they’d be okay with it. There was no fear of punishment. </p><p> </p><p>But it was 4:07 A.M, and X6 was afraid.</p><p> </p><p>He could feel. He could feel <em> without </em> being punished. But if he allowed himself those...privileges? <em> Rights </em>? He would have to admit that everything before was wrong. Everything before didn’t happen to him like he thought it did. He would have to go against everything he knew, every little lesson he had to force down his own throat after failing to follow the rules, learning the hard way why he should not have had freedom after he-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Bwwwp.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Pyewhacket beeped from her spot against his knee, staring at him with big baby-blue eyes. X6 reached down, rubbing her head and behind her ears. Well, that simply wasn’t enough, as the kitten hopped to her paws and leapt to his chest, settling under his chin. </p><p> </p><p>The courser unclenched his jaw, letting his shoulders loosen. Let out the breath he’d held in to will himself into calmness. He used the hand not petting the small animal to adjust his pillow, idly wondering if those stories, the ones he’d always brushed off as needless sentiment, about people’s lives being saved by their pets did have a ring of truth to them. </p><p> </p><p>It was 4:16, and X6-88 fell asleep with a kitten, purring so hard it sounded like it hurt, nuzzling into his neck. </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>That morning, the courser woke up smothered, wet(?), and finding it difficult to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>Pie decided that sleeping directly on his face was more enjoyable. Then drooled all over it. Didn’t even care. Just sat by the window and beeped smugly while he wiped off the, frankly, worrying amount of saliva produced in her sleep. </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>The cat was a kiss-up. Worse than Danse had been to Maxson.</p><p> </p><p>Curie sat in his apartment, on the chair by the window, drowning the little love-sponge with attention and adoration. Piper seemingly refused to use furniture properly, sitting on the small desk by the bookshelves. X6 could hardly care about either of these things as he wolfed down pumpkin pie. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, tu n'es pas le plus beau? Oui, tu l'es, petit ange! La bonté!” The synth doctor cooed at the siamese gently chewed on a mouse toy he had retrieved for her the day before, among other things. Bedding, food - cat things.</p><p> </p><p>“Curie, we don’t speak surrender.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 snorted, nearly choking on a divine crust. Curie paused in her fawning, lips pressed. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Must </em> you insult the downfalls of the French, Madam Piper?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes.” </em> Curie rolled her eyes good-naturedly, a habit she had to have picked up working alongside Mr. Garvey. “Anyway, let’s focus here, before someone,” Piper nodded at X6, “Runs out of pie and kicks us out. So!” She clapped her hands. “We’re all on chapter 8, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oui. I finished last night while waiting for the pie to finish.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 only gave a thumbs-up, sitting cross-legged on the corner of the sofa closest to the other two, his plate on his knee. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. First order of business: who’s our leading candidate - besides Barb, it’s <em> obviously </em>Barb - for Juniper, and who’s in last place?” Piper took the role of leader, the most assertive between shy, sweet Curie and a man made to follow. “X? You wanna go- uh, know what, never mind, finish deep-throating your pie. Curie?”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor perked up, cradling Pyewhacket like an infant. “Oh! Monsieur Hancock explained to me why my preference for Jacob was...in poor taste.” Curie shifted, “I understand now that he is a poor choice for love. I think Chandler would be the better one of the three.” </p><p> </p><p>Piper met his eyes, winking.<em> ‘Our girl is safe, fear not.’ </em> She cleared her throat. “Feel like elaborating on that?” </p><p> </p><p>Curie took a forkful of her own pie, humming as she enjoyed her work. “I know he is...overly traditional? But at least you will know what to expect from him. He is only a product of his culture - that does not mean he is abusive, like Jacob.” </p><p> </p><p>“Excellent observation, Dr. Curie. At least he can’t prove to be even worse.” </p><p> </p><p>Piper swung her legs, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I see what both of you are gettin’ at, but I, personally, couldn’t stand someone like him. I thought Bodhi was the worst - sorry, ‘Six - but at least he looks like he’s gonna get <em> redeemed </em> .” The reporter held out her palms upon seeing the courser cease his attack on the pie. “I know, I know, but I think the book’s gonna take him in a direction that makes him look better. When he and Juniper met in the third chapter, it was a key point that she was attracted to him, but didn’t like him because of how different their world views were. I think he’s gonna be a part of her <em> ‘development’ </em> - using that loosely - by giving her a different perspective on things.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 set the fork down in disbelief. “Every time he opens his mouth, it’s to demean her. Jacob and Chandler are upfront in their intentions to control her - Bodhi tries to use female liberation as a trap to convince her to abandon everything she’s worked towards to be with him.” He said matter-of-factly. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah, I totally agree here. But I’d be surprised if that’s what he <em> stays </em> as. I think it’s a front to make him look half-good, half-bad, and then he’s gonna be, like,” Piper leaned back, lounging in a stereotypical hippie pose. “ <em> ‘Babe, I’m just trying to show you that you don’t need a man to be happy, it’s all a con to convince you to make babies to fuel the machine.’ </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Bodhi is far too much like many of the men of science I have to work with for me to want anything good for him.” Curie confessed, a hint of guilt on the edges of her voice. </p><p> </p><p>“I believe that was the most aggressive thing you have said about another person, doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> shoosh </em>, you.” The synth waved her hand, dismissing X’s teasing. Pyewhacket meowed indignantly at the pause in pets. Curie realized her mistake, resuming the attention at the animal’s insistence. “Ah, forgive me, Madam Pie.”</p><p> </p><p>If he was honest, there was something about seeing Curie in <em> his </em> apartment, petting <em> his </em> cat. Something domestic. Normal. X6 understood the societal beliefs about pets and interpersonal relationships - if the animal doesn’t like your new romantic partner, leave them, that sort of thing.. He was... <em> happy </em>...to see that Pyewhacket had taken to the doctor, happy to have someone who would bring him donuts and make him pie and talk about poorly-written books and play with his cat and sit on his desk.</p><p> </p><p><em> ‘You can’t be. You </em> <em> shouldn’t </em> <em> be.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>There was that grip around his throat again.</p><p> </p><p>The feeling of it lingered throughout the evening, never leaving the nape of his neck while the girls argued about if Bodhi was redeemable. </p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>If there was one thing the courser trusted least, it was moments where things seemed good. Once with the new Director, this distrust increased tenfold. </p><p> </p><p>It would start simply. He would be in an agreeable-or-better circumstance, enjoy or appreciate it, and then everything would come crashing down in guilt and shame. </p><p> </p><p>He had selfishly allowed himself to socialize, pretend to be something he wasn’t, and barely two days later, he was punished for it. </p><p> </p><p><em> ‘Good times’ </em> were nothing but the calm before the storm. The sun shined the brightest before the typhoon, the earth was stillest before the quake, he was the happiest before purging and punishing himself for the inherent weakness of feeling.</p><p> </p><p>He<em> was happy. </em></p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t <em> supposed </em> to be, not <em> allowed </em>to be, and now he had to perform his duty of enforcing the rules of the institute upon rogue synths. Only he was both the enforcer and the enforced.</p><p><br/>And so, the courser sat on his kitchen floor, still and silent, mind a hurricane destroying everything until the slate was wiped clean and he was numb. Numb was good - unfeeling, uncaring, the ideal headspace for a courser. </p><p> </p><p>X went over the rules, adjusting them to be stricter, adding new ones as needed. He was a courser, coursers don’t own apartments or cats, they don’t let people in their apartments and pet their cat and talk about bad porn.  </p><p> </p><p><em> ‘You’re the best - </em> <em> act like it. </em> <em> You remember why it has to be like this. Don’t you?’ </em>The claws brushed around his neck.</p><p>
  <em> ‘Shut up.’ </em>
</p><p><em> ‘If you start failing now, </em> <em> no one is allowed to wipe you. </em> <em> ’ </em>It hissed down his spine.</p><p><em> ‘Shut </em> <em> up.’  </em></p><p>
  <em> ‘What would they think of you? Why do you forget? It was your fault, and you act like it never happened. When will you stick to your promise?’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘I’m trying.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘Try harder. Until you stop feeling enough to hear me, his-’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Knockknockknock</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>The unexpected guest would never know how thankful he was that they arrived when they did. </p><p> </p><p>X6 shakily stood <em> (‘Pathetic, pathetic, </em> <em> pathetic’ </em> <em> ), </em>trying to untangle enough of his head to focus on repairing and reenforcing the mask.</p><p> </p><p>He opened the door, the voice hovering behind his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, <em> of course </em>his luck would have the detective standing in the hallway. </p><p>Valentine nodded, his usual stiff greeting, shifting nervously on his feet, holding a medium-sized box. </p><p><br/>He and the detective never got along. While X admired certain aspects of the synth, such as his intelligence and perception, he couldn’t stand being around someone who wouldn’t leave him and his <em> f*cked up head </em> the hell <em> alone </em>. The last time he had seen Valentine was in the bunkhouse, the day of the death of his coat and his consequential departure. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>The synth had tracked down his apartment and that was all he had to say. Why was the air so heavy? </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick fidgeted, the tell-tale sign that he was trying to pry into X6’s business and pretend that he was just as normal and human and alive as the others. The courser’s jaw almost hurt with how tight it was clenched. “Jess gave me your address. Thought I’d stop by, see how many of your neighbors ended up in a freezer. And, uh,” The older synth held out the box. “Got you a house-warming gift. Would’ve gotten it to you sooner, but had some trouble getting it together.”</p><p> </p><p>Social-skill programming said that X6 should have let Nick inside the apartment. The voice, dragging its claws against his pulse, said to shut the door, isolate himself until it didn’t need to appear, refuse any and all offers of friendship or kindness.</p><p> </p><p>X6 stood aside, gesturing to the open space as permission to enter. The claws dug into his neck, tightening around his throat. </p><p> </p><p>The detective cleared his throat ducking past the courser as he accepted the invitation, almost...sheepish. Valentine barely glanced around the room before Pyewhacket woke from her nap in the bathroom sink, running up to the detective and meowing relentlessly. She jumped at his legs, ran around his ankles, beeping at yet another potential source of earrubs. </p><p> </p><p>Nick paused, eyebrow quirked, no doubt remembering all of the times X6 had complained about the <em> ‘inconveniences of pets’. </em> He tucked the box under his arm and knelt down slowly, metal hand scratching behind her ear, slipping down to her chin and lifting the tag on her floral collar.  “Huh. Didn’t peg you a fan of old movies.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re familiar with it?”</p><p> </p><p>“It was Jenny’s favorite. Made me- made <em> Nick </em>, watch it with her so many times I could probably recite it line by line.” Pyewhacket flopped to her side at the synth’s feet, chirping at the stranger she had no fear towards. Nick chuckled, rubbing her head before standing up. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to pet your cat - as much of a doll as she is.” Said cat meowed sadly, blue eyes pleading for more attention. </p><p> </p><p>X6 stiffened. “What do you want, Valentine?”</p><p> </p><p>Nick offered him the box. “Already told you. I got something for ya.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need your charity.” He hissed, the hands wrapped around his throat burying their talons into his esophagus and tearing his own voice away from him. It didn’t matter what he wanted - it was to be another day X6-88 drove away any acts of good-will for no better reason than they scared the sh*t out of him.</p><p> </p><p>Valentine didn’t seem to care about his quip or mind what had to be an <em> obvious </em> attempt at distancing himself from others. He shoved the box into X’s chest, expression the facial version of <em> ‘I’m going to be nice whether you like it or not, you philaphobic disaster of a man’. </em> “Charity would be breaking in and painting your walls an actual <em> color </em>. Place looks like a funeral home.” </p><p> </p><p>The courser kept his mouth shut, not daring any attempt of response. The claws tore at the lining of his throat. X6 considered the box - flat, medium, slightly heavy. Plain cardboard. Valentine nodded at it, gesturing for him to get on with it and open the d*mn thing, stop acting like it was a bomb. </p><p> </p><p>Pulling up the lid revealed a mess of spotted cellophane and something black beneath. He pushed aside the crinkling paper, ignoring the cat at his feet enamored with the sound and electing to save it for her. </p><p> </p><p>It was a leather jacket. Black, obviously from a Deathclaw’s hide, hand-crafted. X6 lifted it from the box, letting the cardboard fall to the floor and into the cat’s possession.</p><p> </p><p>Nick fidgeted with a wire coming from his hand. “We all felt horrible about your coat. MacCready and I spent a week tracking an Alpha from Malden down to Quincy - big ol’ lizard just wanted to get the hell away from us, so at least it had something in common with you.” The synth chuckled, “Preston tanned and dyed it, Deacon and Cait did the finishing touches. I know it ain’t the original, but at least this one won’t go the same way it did. Asbestos lining, Jess’s touch.”</p><p> </p><p>A leather jacket to replace the courser coat. </p><p> </p><p>The courser coat was a symbol of the Institute’s power - the ability to create something in the image of humans, then make it more advanced. People of the Commonwealth knew the avoid the strange people in the dark jackets, stalking the alleys and roads of the wasteland. The coats were a symbol of the inevitability of the Institute. To the very organization, it was a symbol of achievement. To the coursers, it was their only identity.</p><p>If you wanted to be more than a synth, more than a face amongst the field of white uniforms and a designation, you joined the program and you got through it. Upon your graduation, you were given a coat. The coat meant that you were the enforcers of the Institute. You kept the synths in line so the scientists could sleep at night. You braved the wasteland for escapees and technology. You destroyed the enemies that the simple bullet fodder couldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>The courser coat said <em> ‘You’re a dangerous, top-of-the-line machine.’ </em>Earned by proving himself as such.</p><p>The jacket he held said <em> ‘You’re our friend.’ </em></p><p>He hadn’t earned it. </p><p> </p><p>Claws fled from his throat, yet it somehow became hard to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>“I, uh, I know it isn’t exactly Institute-standard, but I doubt any of those egg-heads are gonna give you trouble for it. <em> Better not, </em> if they don’t want the Railroad on their rears.”</p><p> </p><p>X6’s jaw was clenched painfully tight. </p><p><br/>“We did try to just get you another courser jacket, but Ayo got all huffy and I can hardly stand him the best of days.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘You are not crying in front of him.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Jess’s working on a bandolier for ya, since it doesn’t exactly have enough space for ammo pockets, like your trench coat did.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Oh my God, shut up, I’m gonna die.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Curie suggested giving it a little design on the back, personalize for you, but the rest of us thought you’d like it simple. Of course, we could’ve put the Institute insignia on the-” Nick paused, and<em> god f*cking d*mnit </em> he had to be noticing the fact that X6 was about to have an <em> issue </em>. “You, uh, you okay…?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m </em> <em> fine </em> <em> .” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> God d*mn it, d*mn it, </em> why did he ever <em> f*cking </em>think he’d be anything other than a failure, of course his voice broke, <em> of course </em> he was about to collapse in front of the last person he wanted to fall apart in front of, of course he was going to embarrass himself, everything was good <em> why did it always have to end like this why did he always go back to pretending why did he a</em><em>l</em><em>ways do this to himself why-</em></p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t looking at the other synth, but he didn’t need to, Nick’s eyes widened was obvious with his gen2.5 eyes that emoted more than his own.</p><p> </p><p>Nick reached out, not touching him, but hands hovering to...to do <em> something </em>, something X didn’t have the time to figure out before the...everything, the screaming grew louder the claws mangled his throat and tore across his spine the acid knot crawled up into his mouth and he wanted to puke- “H-hey, d*mn, it’s alright, just take a breath-” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Get out.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t stop it. It was like there was that bright-eyed synth, fresh into the world, still in there, somewhere past the walls and traps of the dungeon the man he turned into had buried him in all those years ago, begging to be let out and begging to have something like the thing he lost because he had tried to be human but he couldn’t get out, not with the courser patrolling the halls and double-checking every lock. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t handle it. He had done nothing but treat these people like scum and they went and destroyed the only thing that made him happy and then they went and hand-made him a new one that meant so, so much more and he didn’t deserve it and here Nick was trying to comfort him in an anxiety attack and he couldn’t handle it.</p><p> </p><p>Nick, bless his soul what did the world do to deserve him, didn’t surrender, he saw the ghost of something young and soft and sweet past the icy eyes and no man knew the detective to abandon a dying soul, abandon someone at their lowest and most fragile. “X, it’s okay, I’m right here, you can talk to me-”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>“GET THE F*CK OUT.”</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>X6-88 had never screamed before, always detested the low-patience egomaniacs who thought they could shriek at everything and everyone to get their way, but he didn’t know what else to do, didn’t have control over himself even if he did. Pyewhacket jumped and ran out of the room, slipping as she ran and hid under the bed, <em> god sweetheart he was so sorry- </em></p><p> </p><p>Valentine paused, analyzing the situation, and sighed. <em> God </em> , he <em> hated </em>that sound, full of disappointment and realization that the courser was an irredeemable piece of sh*t who would never deserve his goodwill.</p><p> </p><p>“Have a good night, X.”</p><p> </p><p>And walked out the door. </p><p>The courser dropped the f*cking jacket to the floor, stumbling backwards against a bookshelf and sliding to the ground. He buried his face in his hand, eyes screwed shut trying to block the wetness from falling down his cheeks. Pyewhacket crept from her hiding spot, meowing at the sight of her person in distress. Sweet girl ran and hopped into his lap, grabbing at his face and beeping worriedly. </p><p> </p><p>From the hallway, he could hear faint conversation:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘What just happened? Is he okay?’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘Don’t know, we’re not at that point where he’s ready to talk. Guess he’s just...having a day.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘Do you think I should bring him more donuts tomorrow?’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘I’d give him some space. Pushing will only make him hide more.’ </em>
</p><p><em> ‘So we’re just gonna let him </em> <em> suffer alone, </em> <em> pretend we don’t know or care?’ </em></p><p><em> ‘It’s X. He doesn’t </em> <em> want </em> <em> us to know or care.’ </em></p><p>A sigh. <em> ‘Maybe you’re right. Night, Nicky.’ </em></p><p>
  <em> ‘You too. Tell Nat I said hi.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He bit his lip to keep the sob from tearing through his burning throat. Pie purred in his arms, against his chest. X had heard from Danse that cats purr to soothe others, and wondered through the mess in his head if she was returning the favor after the Super Mutants. He hid his face in the soft fluff of her back, body jerking as he refused to cry properly.</p><p> </p><p>It was 7:29 P.M, and X6-88 had burned a bridge again. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I genuinely had to look in the mirror and hype myself up for this. "You've cried in front of your screen countless times. It's time you made others cry. This is your job as a writer."</p><p>This was HAAAARRRDD. I hate conflict, hate writing it, hate hurting characters like this - but this fic couldn't be all sunshine and rainbows. 4 chapters and nothing but happiness? Nonono, let's add some zest with a panic attack and denial of kindness.</p><p>Do me a favor and let me know what you thought of the Big Blow Up. I don't write conflict, as I said, and don't know what I could have done better. I tried basing X's thought process after my own in similar situations - tbh I self-project onto him a LOT. What the first fic was about, actually. </p><p>Anyway, give me and advice, feedback, what you did/didn't like, what felt awkward/unnatural about that scene, there's more of them to come and I need to optimize pain output. </p><p>Also: first instance of Tragic Backstory being dropped. I don't wanna be like "PLOTTWIST!", so I'm making it slightly obvious what happened to make X the way he is. Eyes open for hints, people ;)<br/>ALSO: I don't want to hear "X6 Doesn't Feel, He Doesn't Cry!" bc lemme tell you. I myself am a brickwall when it comes to feelings, and I cry. I cry when people aren't around, because I'm human. I especially cry when I can't be a brickwall, when I look 'weak'. I once cried in gym because my classmate was outperforming me at running and I hated being the un-athletic fat girl.</p><p>People cry, even if they're stone-faced and closed off. People also can cry when they're vulnerable. People can explode when others find out that they aren't as strong as they want to be seen as. I accept criticism of my writing, not of reality. By all means, call me sh*t, but don't 'pics or it didnt happen' me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Just a hungry ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ghosts come back to haunt him. Meanwhile, Piper can't make pancakes to save her life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> ‘Atom Bomb Baby, Lil Atom Bomb-’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>X6 stopped in his tracks the grating sound of the music from the streets below fumigating his apartment despite his best efforts. The courser flexed his fists, took a deep death, and slammed his forehead into his fridge exactly four times. </p><p> </p><p>F*ck this place. </p><p> </p><p>Apparently, something good happened with the Minutemen? He didn’t know, he hadn’t left his apartment since...well. Same day he shoved a leather jacket back into its box and hid it in the back of his closet. That had been a little under a week ago. Anyway, the Minutemen had some sort of good luck or victory and now Sanctuary seemed determined to start the weekend as annoyingly as possible. Satisfied with the soreness in his cranium, the courser resumed his retrieval of the cat food tin, much to the joy of the little demon slinking around his ankles.</p><p> </p><p>Turns out, Pyewhacket was not as sweet and innocent as he thought. </p><p> </p><p>X6 uncovered her plans earlier that morning. She would win his heart, convincing him to bring her home. Then, she would be the sweetest, most easy-going creature ever, all slow blinks and warm purrs. After ensuring that he was dedicated to pampering and spoiling her, she unleashed her chaos upon the unsuspecting man, destroying any sense of peace in his home. </p><p> </p><p>Pie had revealed her true, mischievous colors slowly - first, she’d hop up on the table, knowing she was not allowed up there. She’d stare when he tsked, meow cluelessly when he removed her. Then, she started playing with things very much <em> not </em> suitable as kitty toys. The blinds, the pull-chain for lamps, batting around <em> fusion cells how did she even get them, </em> until she reached the ultimate crime - <em> his sunglasses. </em> He’d been sitting in the chair, brooding, when she jetted like an honest-to-god rocket at his face, taking them in her little baby fangs, and ricocheted from his chest into the bathroom. </p><p> </p><p>A courser’s job is to hunt and retrieve. She stood no chance in her theft. Of course, that didn’t stop her from finding other ways to wreak havoc. She’d knock things from shelves and tables, chase shadows around the room and cry when they disappeared, lunge for the window and hurt herself and cry to make him hold her. </p><p> </p><p>He swore his hair had to be greying. Didn’t help that the b*tch knew how to make him forgive and forget, either. Blink slowly, purr, knead at the floor, rub up against him, meow in misery if he tried to give her a cold shoulder. Worked every.<em> F*cking.</em> <em>Time</em>. </p><p> </p><p>How the <em> hell </em>did a tiny animal make a courser her b*tch? </p><p> </p><p>By being utterly adorable. God, he was pathetic. </p><p> </p><p>Pyewhacket screamed at his feet, big eyes imploring her organic radhen-and-mirelurk <em> (radiation free, full of vitamins, made by the Institute, of course) </em>dinner be brought to her before she died, starved and neglected. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a drama queen.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “MEAOWW.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“No need for theatrics.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Brrrwww…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“If you were that hungry, you’d eat the kibble in the dispenser.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mrrrw.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Watch your language.”</p><p> </p><p>The cat only huffed, pouting at her corner in the kitchen, with her water dispenser and kibble dispenser and some decor. Nothing special, a small fish painting, a string of white lights, small rug, a pristine cat bed - just a space she could call her own. Pie stared at her empty dish, as if she could will him into filling it faster. Drama queen. </p><p> </p><p>X knelt down by the heathen animal, emptying the tin’s contents into the metal bowl as Pie meowed in glee. He scratched behind her ears briefly as she dived into her dinner, happy little thing kneading at her rug and blinking at him.</p><p> </p><p>Then the cheers of inbred settlers broke past his defenses of glass pane and shut curtains, and the moment was ruined. </p><p> </p><p>What the hell were they even celebrating? The Minutemen had multiple victories and successes before and they never partied. If it was anything less than Danse or Mr. Boswel <em> somehow </em>getting the other pregnant and expecting a chimera-child, the courser was going to open fire. </p><p> </p><p>Of course, he could have just asked Piper, but…</p><p> </p><p>After last week, the idea of being around anyone made his skin crawl. He’d have to go out again eventually, but...he couldn’t right now. Not so soon. </p><p> </p><p>Ugh, what if Mr. Boswel assigned him to a security check for a settlement? A particularly good spot being discovered and claimed could be reason for partying, the chance wasn’t completely unlikely. He’d either send him with one of the others, or tag along himself. X6 didn’t know which one was worse - Valentine <em> had </em> to have told the Director about the.. <em> .the thing with the jacket </em>...but wasn’t a gossip, so he probably didn’t tell anyone but the Director, meaning that the others would ask about the jacket. </p><p> </p><p>The best course of action was to avoid unnecessary social contact until his systems had rebooted and he was performing optimally. Unfortunately, that could take a while. It always did. But, if he was to be the ideal traveling companion, he needed to be in the correct state of mind. The thing with Valentine was a <em> warning shot </em> - not the fatal bullet. It was a tornado siren that something worse would happen. X6 was the tornado. If he didn’t hide away, lock himself in a bunker, he would tear everything apart, sweep the world into the sky and send it crashing back down. It wasn’t for personal comfort - an unstable courser was as, if not more, dangerous than a Deathclaw. Him hiding was for the best of everyone. He’d done it before - lost his sense to feeling, and hurt others as a result. After that, he <em> swore </em>to never fall victim to emotion and his fickle heart ever again, never hurt someone by being human and insubordinate again.</p><p> </p><p>Well...really, the best course of action would be to never see them again. Return to the Institute, find a new assignment, leave Sanctuary. Mr. Boswel would let him. The man would tear himself apart in self-blame, would probably cry and hug him goodbye, but he would let the courser leave. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s why X6 wouldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Leaving was not an option before. He had no choice. Now, he did. He could leave, even without saying anything. But Mr. Boswel would let him, would understand, would say goodbye and tell him he’d wish him the best and that he’d hope they'd see each other again. Mr. Boswel would let him leave. Something the Institute would, and had and would continue to, scoff and roll its eyes at.</p><p> </p><p>So he didn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He stayed because it was his choice to stay.</p><p> </p><p>If he had the strength, the skill, he’d tell the Director <em> ‘thank you’ </em> . For the freedom, the patience, the care...tell the others <em> ‘thank you’ </em>for the jacket.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> had </em>meant to say thank you. He did. Thank you, I love it, thank you for thinking and caring about me even after everything, thank you for understanding what that coat was to me, thank you for not running at the sight of my fortress. Thank you for giving me a second chance.</p><p> </p><p>He had wanted to say thank you. Thank you was a loaded phrase, however. A lockpick to his dungeon cell. </p><p> </p><p>Letting them in the castle walls wasn’t an option. He’d rather die than let them in. That didn’t stop them from not caring about the spikes and the shark-infested moat. It didn’t stop them from braving the defenses and trying to find whoever was locked down in the basement. They weren’t afraid of the facade he put on, and they didn’t care how sharp his teeth were when he bared them. He could thrash and run and hide all he wanted - they would try and let him know he was one of them.</p><p> </p><p>Piper wouldn’t cower at him, only argue further whereas scientists would reel and gawk if he dared question them. She’d share candy with him discreetly, glance at him with a <em> look </em> when someone said something stupid. Danse was a garage teacher, helping him learn how to repair and modify his weapons after years of not being allowed to. The soldier would complain with him about the lack of coordination or tact some of the others had in battle. MacCready would challenge him to bets and dares - who could shoot X amount of raider heads in 3 minutes, who could hit the best trickshot, who could <em> ‘no-scope’, </em> and for some reason, MacCready insisted he meet Duncan. Said he wanted the boy to <em> ‘meet all his aunts and uncles.’ </em> Curie would fret over him when he was, in her eyes, reckless, and they would debate and talk about science and philosophy for hours until the sun came up. Deacon, even <em> Deacon </em>, tried to include him. The man was Railroad, so of course he would, but even if he wasn’t obligated and required to, it was still a gesture that X6 had never been graced with.</p><p> </p><p>They’d tried to bring him into the family, and he was human enough to humor them for a time. </p><p> </p><p>That was the problem. He was human <em> enough </em> - not <em> enough </em> of a <em> human </em>. </p><p> </p><p>They wanted something that he couldn’t give. At the Institute, he had succeeded, been one of the best, because he wasn’t enough of a human to wipe or reprimand. Small slip-ups, like his sunglasses or his candy cravings, but never enough to consider him defunct. He wasn’t enough of a human, so he thrived. </p><p> </p><p>Topside, he was only human <em> enough </em>. He had too many mechanical traits - his lack of compassion, his monotonous voice, the way he moved was too sharp and precise, he never seemed to breathe. People noticed quickly that he wasn’t what he appeared to be.</p><p> </p><p>Danse was considered odd, but still decidedly human. He had a soldier’s walk that was slightly forced. The quirks he had couldn’t be made or faked in a lab - he had a peculiar pattern of fixing his power armor, he visibly hurt for other people, his voice was strong and soft at the same time. He passed the test with flying colors. Even Curie, despite being a Miss Nanny, still made people only realize what she was after being told so. She had a love for soft things, hated the dark and silence, was incredibly expressive despite it being her first emotable face. Curie passed the test. Nick passed the test even though he was obviously not human.</p><p> </p><p>It was just him that failed. </p><p> </p><p>Even the other coursers and synths from the Institute were succeeding in their newfound freedom and humanity. Coursers went to the detective agency in DC, offering their services as skilled finders of people, and now Valentine had employees he called <em> ‘cupids’. </em> Synths, gen 2 and 3, could be found amongst the Minutemen soldiers, working easily alongside the humans and ghouls like there was no difference between them.</p><p> </p><p>It was just him that hadn’t found a flock. His flock was his fellow courser and synths, living beneath the shadow of the scientists in fear. They were free, so they had left him. All of them found their new homes, new families. They were <em> human </em> , not just <em> human enough. </em></p><p> </p><p>It was just him, now.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>That Sunday morning, the rain had corralled the settlers back into their homes, and the streets fell silent again. No music, no cheers, no noise but the storm raging against the concrete and dirt and tin roofs. </p><p> </p><p>X6 stood at his bedroom window, peering through the blinds. The sky was darkened, light smoked out by thick clouds and fog. He could barely see the street below. </p><p> </p><p>Idly, the sound of Piper and Nat making their Sunday breakfast and singing along to a song by that woman from the Third Rail ghosted into his apartment from across the hall. Piper had told him that tarberry pancakes on Sunday was a tradition from their father, something she’d promised to carry on after his death. A torch passed from father to child, a way to remember a loved one lost. A way to honor them, keep their love alive even if they had ceased to be years ago. She’d invited him to it. Said her door was always open and they always made too much. X had declined, saying he didn’t want to intrude on something that intimate and special. </p><p> </p><p>It <em> was </em> the truth, but not <em> all </em>of it. </p><p><br/>
A clatter, a whisper of <em> ‘Nat!’ </em> and the following <em> ‘Oops! Sorry!’ </em>gave the image of the young girl spilling something on her sister. Probably the pancake batter. </p><p> </p><p>If he was honest, Nat was one of his favorite humans. Smart, quick on the verbal draw, fiercely determined and as protective as her sister. One of his favorite memories of the girl was when he watched her take the p*ss out of a settler who wouldn’t take Piper’s rejection of his advances. Nothing better than a grown man afraid of a little girl with a large library of swear words. Piper had threatened to feed her soap, but with X6 supporting Nat’s intimidation tactics, it was two against one. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he enjoyed her as a neighbor. The two had only met recently, when Piper insisted the young girl <em> ‘know who to go do if she needed someone dead’. </em>Shaun had also been introduced to Nat by his father. It took an hour for them to find trouble. One had convinced the other that they should go exploring in an old garage near Sanctuary, which happened to be infested by ferals. Lucky for them, X6 had been tailing them since he noticed the two whispering mischievously. </p><p>Nat and Shaun were the <em> ‘Danger Duo’, </em> of Sanctuary, as worded by Sturges. Shaun had the brains, Nat had the plan and charisma, and Duncan was occasionally their patsy. It was a group effort to keep them from getting hurt or causing too much trouble - even Deacon had to put his foot down at them, when they tried experimenting with chems. Not like, <em>using</em>, but smuggling the poison to run tests and experiments that they then used to, essentially, Daytripper-gas what they thought to be raiders, but were actually RR agents. </p><p> </p><p>Desdemona was not happy. Deacon was not happy. Piper and Mr. Boswel were not happy. X6, who gave them the idea in the first place, was very happy. </p><p> </p><p>From what he understood, getting into trouble was a key factor of development in children. Nat didn’t need any boost, but Shaun did. The boy was a synth, programmed to be the ideal child. Shaun might have had his program erased and was allowed to live as a normal kid, but that only did so much for a boy who had seen what he had. In his first few weeks of freedom with his real father, the Institute hung behind him like a shadow, claws in his shoulders and whispering things a little boy shouldn’t hear. Mr. Boswel had mostly succeeded in eradicating the demons with therapy provided by a Dr. Cabot. In a few weeks, Shaun hardly thought about the white walls and fluorescent lights or the cruel poking and prodding by scientists. Didn’t remember that he had questions like “Why can’t I play with the other kids?” “Why do people call me an<em> ‘it’ </em>?” “Why does Father hate me?”</p><p> </p><p>It had personally relieved the courser when Shaun had grown from a robotic imitation to a scared, traumatized boy, to the bright, prodigal child he was today. Shaun didn’t need the past when the present was so much kinder. </p><p> </p><p>X6 rubbed at the back of his neck, lingering at the black ink. Shaun had been spared before the wounds twisted into scars. 01110011 01111001 01101110 01110100 01101000. Synth. The tattoo reserved for coursers.</p><p><br/>
He traced the pattern of ones and zeros that was the latch for the Institute’s leash. </p><p> </p><p>The coursers were held in higher regard, but were somehow treated worse. He, and every other courser, was little more than a hunting dog. Find the synth, boy. <em> Fetch </em>. Go earn tonight’s table scraps and a warm bed. The dog team needed tags and collars, something to identify their owners, a way to keep them from hiding. It was a way to keep them on a leash, to keep them from thinking they were more than the garden-variety synths. </p><p> </p><p>See, coursers were held to a higher expectation, higher standard. The taller you are, the harder you fall. If the normal synths screwed up, they weren’t allowed to, but it was expected. They were machines - machines malfunctioned. Coursers weren’t expected to fail, so when they did, it wasn’t a matter of learning from a mistake, it was a matter of failing your very existence. </p><p> </p><p>The regular synths, when they malfunctioned or failed, were fixed and noted for possible repeats of the incident. A courser failed or malfunctioned, they were screamed at, kicked, sent back out with their tail between their legs and not even allowed to whimper. If a regular synth had a secret, scientists would dig to learn it and give a warning. Coursers kept something hidden, they could be wiped. If you weren’t lucky enough for that, you’d be interrogated, tortured until you’d spill anything, even lies, just to be forgiven and let out. </p><p> </p><p>Secrets were a special sort of offense. The Institute was, by nature, secretive. Such secrecy was for the scientists and the scientists alone. You could expand your closet to fit as many skeletons as you want, the rattling of bones would be noticed by a human. Nothing was private if you weren’t born from womb. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris had tried to rectify that, once. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Think of a color. Any color at all, whatever comes to mind.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What’s the purpose of this?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Never mind that, pick a color.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Uh...alright…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Good, good, now, don’t tell me what it is.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “But- why would you ask me to pick a color if you didn’t want to know it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That’s the point. You have a color picked, and I don’t know what it is. Something hidden from me. A secret.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Synths don’t have secrets, Dr. Paris.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Even better - your own little secret, and it’s a secret between the two of us. No one has to know.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>X6’s heart ached. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris...he wasn’t a man that belonged in the Institute. Skills in science, love in art. He was a man of passion, always taking what was handed to him and throwing it aside, making life go along with what he did. A head scientist in Bioscience that cared more about the arts than he did the progression and advancements of science, the type to read paper books. The type to treat everything as a grandchild, spinning tales from the old world to anything that would listen. That <em> ‘anything’ </em> was often X. </p><p> </p><p>The courser stepped back, falling onto his bed, staring at the ceiling fan. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris would tell him stories, mythologies, history, anything about humans and their fondness for the fantastical. Sometimes, he would steal him away into his room to teach him art. Art was treated as something to aid a child’s development - not something an elderly man should do in his free time, and certainly not with a synth. It didn’t matter. Dr. Paris taught him how to sketch, draw, paint; useless abilities, merely talents, not a skill worth learning. </p><p> </p><p>In that room, covered in oil paint or hands stained with pencil, it was like he wasn’t a machine made of a collagen framework running on red gasoline.</p><p> </p><p>One day, the doctor asked him to create a self-portrait. X6 had never seen his own reflection - not because of rules, he simply hadn’t looked. Dr. Paris put him in front of an easel with brushes and gel paints, and described what he looked like. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You have high, strong cheekbones.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Your eyes are a shocking blue, intense and focused.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You have eyebrows that emote slightly.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>By the end of it, the easel had turned into a mirror.</p><p> </p><p>X6 wondered if he still looked like the synth that had sat and painted what an old man saw. </p><p> </p><p>The days when these memories came around were the worst. </p><p> </p><p>The courser rubbed at his eyes with his palms, rolling off the bed to satisfy the sugar craving that pounced on him, the way it always did when the ghosts started getting into the sheets. </p><p>Pyewhacket was sitting at the windowsill in the kitchen, sniffing at the webbing that let air in without giving a particularly brave and curious kitten an opening for escape. He rubbed behind her ears, earning a surprise beep. </p><p> </p><p>The courser retrieved a snack cake box from the cupboard, glancing around at bare white walls.</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris said he <em> ‘had a knack for the arts’ </em>once. Kept all of his work, even hung some of it up around his quarters. X distinctly remembered another scientist coming in and being assaulted by elaborate, abstract artwork and sceneries the synth had never seen. She’d tried to report the both of them to Father, but Dr. Paris was too important, too necessary in Bioscience to reprimand. </p><p><br/>
X6 wondered if they had kept any of the art, or if they burned it. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris would gasp at such a notion. To him, art was something that only a sophisticated, well-off society could produce. Above, aside from the occasional <em> (often lewd or foul) </em>graffiti, the days were spent destroying such things for material, or ignoring it all together to just survive. When a society had to spend all hours of the day trying to make it to the next, the arts were obsolete, a waste of time, something only those suffering from Old World Blues took part in, only to die in their endeavors. Dr. Paris insisted that, to further differentiate the Institute from the wasteland, art was necessary to develop their own culture apart from their work. Sure, they had their beliefs and rules and standards, but no material culture to see except their unique clothing. The man believed that they needed to develop and engage with art to find themselves as remnants of a lost world, to become something other than the carries of torches left by bygone-governments. Art would be their way to being more than just the shadowy scientists - it would make them a hidden world, a culture untouched by the bombs or the mutants that followed, that went so far beyond the ruins of the wasteland.</p><p>
  <em> “Without art, we’re little more than wastelanders in white scrubs. Art is what makes us alive. Human.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Something the old man had said time and time again. A thing X6 had rolled his eyes at <em> (a habit picked up from Dr. Paris, that didn’t go unnoticed by the scientist) </em>yet humored, and sheepishly brushed off when asked by the other synths. </p><p> </p><p>What would Dr. Paris think of him now?</p><p> </p><p>X6 watched Pie chatter at birds on a wire outside.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t be proud, would he?</p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>He would be.</p><p> </p><p>The old man would look at him and beam, the way he did when X brought coffee to him each morning and agreed to stay, play chess, ask about the world and why people prayed and who decided justice, like a child sitting at Grandfather’s rocking chair, bright wide eyes painting the image of old stories. Dr. Paris would look at his cat, his apartment, the small ways he was different and the smaller ways he <em> allowed </em>himself to be different. And he would smile. His mouth would curl lopsidedly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. In a sage, weathered voice, he would promise X6:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m so proud of you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>X6 dropped the box to the floor, knees buckling as he haggardly leaned on the counter. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes he regretted not getting wiped. If he had, he wouldn’t remember. But, if he did, he wouldn’t remember why he had to do what he did, why he had to be what he had become. </p><p> </p><p>If Dr. Paris, whatever higher-power may be out there bless and protect his soul, were still there, he’d tell the troubled synth to get everything out through tears, or watercolor. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Stain your cheeks, or the canvas. Either way will ease the pain.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hands itched, craving the roughness of a brush and the cold stickiness of paint. </p><p> </p><p>X6 wondered if he could start again. </p><p> </p><p>Would it really be that bad? Piper remembered her father with pancakes. Could he remember someone with their tradition? Was that something he was allowed to do?</p><p> </p><p>He fiddled with the bent corner of the already-opened, half-empty box.</p><p> </p><p>Yeah.</p><p> </p><p>Yeah, he was. Maybe he wasn’t...<em> before </em> . But it wasn’t <em> ‘before’. </em> It was now. And now, Mr. Boswel would want him to. <em> Dr. Paris </em> would want him to.</p><p> </p><p>God, if only the two could have met each other. </p><p> </p><p>A glow suddenly illuminated the kitchen, coming from the window. The storm subsided, and the morning sun lit up the cat, highlighting her copious amounts of fluff. She stared at him with her happy squint, tail flicking lazily. Huh. He thinks about taking up art again, and the world gives him a model. </p><p> </p><p>Another crash came from Piper’s apartment, followed by an <em> “Oh, my GOD, I’m AN IDIOT.” </em></p><p> </p><p>X6 paused in his fidgeting with the cardboard.</p><p> </p><p>Piper said her door was always open. She meant it - he was always, <em> always </em>, welcome.</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel would want him to. Dr. Paris would want him to. All of them, the rag-tag group that fought alongside the Director, would want him to. Piper would want him to.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that simple. They wanted things from him that he couldn’t give. He had too many strings tying him to so many promises, so many rules, not all from the Institute. Those promises and rules were set for a reason, a reason he ignored and had to learn the worst way possible. Going down that hallway would spit in the face of everything he had done for the last seven years. </p><p> </p><p>It would be the exact thing Dr. Paris, <em> everyone </em>, would want him to do.</p><p> </p><p>If only it was that simple. </p><p> </p><p>After everything he’d done, as an Institute weapon, as a <em> person </em>, did he deserve to go to them? Did he have the right to ask for clemency, after biting their hands as they offered him friendship? Why would Piper do anything but slam the door in his face?</p><p> </p><p>He stared at the ceiling, watching the fan spin slowly, shadowing pirouetting around the room.</p><p> </p><p>Because Piper wasn’t that kind of person. He was. He would absolutely slam the door to someone like him. </p><p> </p><p>Even more of a reason why he shouldn’t go over.</p><p> </p><p>But Piper wasn’t him. She was nothing like him. Piper was forgiving and more importantly, she wouldn’t give up on him. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but it was true. Piper didn’t give up - she was unrelenting, determined, more stubborn than he was. She wasn’t the type who would go out of her way to buy donuts for someone, invite them to book clubs and a sacred family tradition, if she would only run away. </p><p> </p><p>Piper was in his corner. He had someone in his corner that wasn’t scared of him turning and baring his teeth, wouldn’t be scared if he did, hadn’t been scared when he had. </p><p> </p><p>Sh*t.</p><p> </p><p>Was this what a friend was?</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris would tell him that was a best friend, and to get his moody a** off his counter and go offer a hand not <em> actually f*cking cursed in cooking </em> before-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>BRIIIIINNGGBRIIIINNGBRIIIING</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Before the Wright sisters set off the smoke alarm. Too late.</p><p> </p><p>X6 smirked, tired and bittersweet yet strangely hopeful.</p><p> </p><p>No. No, it wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The only ‘too late’ is never.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Not Dr. Paris’ words. Mr. Boswel’s. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel would want him to. Dr. Paris would want him to. All of them, the rag-tag group that fought alongside the Director, would want him to. Piper would want him to.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>The smell of smoke would likely have been lost on a human, but the courser took it as a cue. Maybe it was a sign from somewhere above, trying to lead him out of the corner he’d backed himself into. Dr. Paris was the type to do that. </p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I know, gimme a moment!” Piper’s harried voice rang somewhere from the bathroom, probably washing off the second attempt at batter. Neither of the two were particularly skilled in cooking - not like Cait or MacCready, who were d*mn liabilities around even just a <em> toaster </em> . Piper could produce something edible, maybe even good, but the journey to it was filled with spills, burns, and re-attempts. Footsteps advanced to the doorway, and the red wood was yanked open. “What now, you godd*mn- <em> oh </em>. Oh! Uh, X, hi! How, uh, how’re you doing?” The reporter leaned against the doorframe, obviously caught off guard. She was in leggings, a Nuka-World t-shirt, and had her hair held back with a bandana. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been hearing crashing and screaming all morning. It was only a matter of time before it was an explosive you dropped, so I’ve come to confiscate any grenades you have.” X tilted his head, standing stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back, thumbnail pressed into the pad of his index finger. “You were obviously expecting someone else. Is there a problem?” Distract, deflect, take attention away from his sudden arrival and abandonment of his self-exile to whatever she had going on. </p><p> </p><p>Piper huffed, laughter on her breath. Completely cool, despite the chaos behind her, with the courser. Like it wasn’t her who was nervous. She had to be, right? He had only nearly dismantled Valentine a week ago, surely she’d be at least weird. Nope. Unflappable Piper Wright had to go and make him look like a teenager trying to get into a party he wasn’t invited to. Said woman half-smiled bitterly. “Oh, man. You would not believe the <em> BS </em> I’ve been dealing with lately. And for the <em> record </em> ,” She jabbed a finger into his chest, “I don’t have <em> grenades </em> in my home. Just because <em> you </em> plan to kill everyone you meet doesn’t mean the rest of us violate the complex rules. Get the hell in here, I’m screwing up <em> pancakes </em>and have to b*tch to someone as good at b*tching as I am.” Piper grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into a smoke-filled apartment while Nat frantically waved a towel, trying to direct the smog away from the alarm and out the window.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Mr. X!” Nat beamed, swinging the towel like a bat, effectively doing nothing, but the energy was there. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Ms. Wright. I see your sister is trying to give you lung cancer.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yep! First batter spilled, second burned like the corpses of the proletariat that couldn’t afford personalized bomb shelters.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“NAT. <em> JESUS </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Am I wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe she’s done her homework.”</p><p> </p><p>Piper sputtered, taking another towel and fanning the smoke out the window. “X, don’t you <em> dare </em> take her side again. She still has too much power from the <em> first </em>time!”</p><p> </p><p>“Threatening that man with the gift of a Columbian neck-tie was perfectly warranted, Ms. Wright.” The courser went about opening the remaining windows, flicking on a standing fan. Nat stuck her tongue out at her sister.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to adults standing up for each other against kids?”</p><p> </p><p>“You said I wasn’t an adult.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh for-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“HA! 11-year-olds, <em> RISE!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Not the time for the institutionalization of a pre-adolescent regime, Nat!”</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>It was 11:16 A.M when they managed to clear the smoke from the apartment, and when Piper surrendered the kitchen to the courser. </p><p> </p><p>“X, you’re on pancake duty. I’m gonna smell like Hancock for weeks.” Piper undid her bandana to fix it while Nat shut the windows and tried to restore as much order as she could. “Ugh, if Hancock thinks I’ve finally crossed the train tracks, I’ll never hear the end of it…” She muttered.</p><p> </p><p>X6 paused as he folded the towels. “Isn’t this a tradition for your father…?”</p><p> </p><p>Piper smiled, small and fond. “Yeah, but I suck at cooking. At least you won't smear my dad’s name with burning pancake batter.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘I trust you enough to not only involve you in something dear to me, but to let you take over and do it for me.This is a family thing and you are family.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Too much. Way too much for him to handle or confront. Deflect, deflect, deflect. </p><p> </p><p>X handed the towels to Nat for the girl to put them away and cracked his knuckles. She winced and made a face, mumbled something about <em> ‘worse than Mr. Valentine…’ </em>that he elected to ignore. “Alright, but I’m not promising anything. I have enough evidence to believe that any kitchen you enter is possessed.”</p><p> </p><p>Piper smirked and raised an eyebrow as she started to add to the depleted bowl of batter - dry mixture, water, mix until smooth. Most likely the safest thing for her to do. “Are you trying to tell me that the ghosts of all my failed meals are haunting me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Something has to be.” He rolled up his sleeves, running the griddle under warm water to get off the burnt pancake crumbs. “There’s no scientific explanation as to how you screwed up pancakes.” </p><p> </p><p>The reporter pulled the whisk from the metal bowl and held it up, watching the batter drip back down in an even, smooth flow. “So, it isn’t me, it’s just that there’s a p*ssed off chef ghost possessing any kitchen I walk into.” Piper set the bowl next to the stove, and went about retrieving the tarberries from the fridge. </p><p> </p><p>X6 poured half-cups of batter onto the pan, the griddle hissing. “Unless you have a better explanation…” He grabbed the small tupperware of tarberries, taking a small handful and covering the pancakes in the mutated fruit. “Did you get strawberries?”</p><p> </p><p>Piper froze, eyes widening as she groaned. “God, that would have been smart. Nat, why didn-”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t even go there.” Came the growly warning from the bathroom as the paper girl balanced on a stool, trying to reach the towel rack.</p><p> </p><p>“How about <em>I</em> put those away, and you go run along and bring back some strawberries. 50 caps should get enough, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“I doubt there’s a high markup.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright. Nat - strawberries. Off you go.” Piper pulled a large vase from the fridge, dumping out a pile of caps onto the counter and sweeping them into a small coin purse she’d retrieved from the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>Nat shoved the coin purse into her hoodie pocket, and gave a theatrical salute before soldier-marching out the door like the little sh*t she was. </p><p> </p><p>Hearing the footfalls down the hallway, X6 figured it be best to ask while the young girl was gone. “So, who were you expecting to be at the door?”</p><p> </p><p>Piper deflated like a balloon, hoisting herself up onto the counter and swinging her legs. She plucked a tarberry from the container, tossing it into her mouth. “Oh thank god, finally. Okay, so you know the guy who just moved in on the first floor?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” X flipped the pancakes once the edges started turning brown. </p><p> </p><p>“Lucky you. He’s this Brotherhood guy, Scribe or something, dishonorable discharge. His name’s Caiden. So, I went down to say hi, make nice, stay in the neighbors’ good graces, right?” Piper began her rant, hands gesturing wildly. “I head down to his apartment, and can you guess what this b*tch said to me? To my face?”</p><p>X6 frowned, flipping the pancakes onto a plate and preparing more. “I would hope he wasn’t disrespectful.” It was a threat. The courser had dealt with many men who were less than gentlemanly to the girls of the group, and he would gladly deal with one more. Especially if he was BoS.</p><p> </p><p>“He looks at me, like a kid on Christmas, and asks if I was coming onto him.” Piper turned to him, cupping his face and staring him down with the look of a lesbian about to go feral. “X. This man called me<em> baby. That’s how insane he is. </em> And, because he’s a creep, found my apartment and has been knocking every. <em> F*cking. Day. </em>To see if I’ll change my mind.” She leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “If you kill him, I’ll help hide the body.”</p><p> </p><p>“What apartment?”</p><p> </p><p>“First floor, A-12, on the left.”</p><p> </p><p>“Noted.”</p><p> </p><p>Piper kissed his cheek. “You’re the best, X.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m aware.” He shoved some rogue pancake batter back into position. </p><p> </p><p>The reporter leaned back, propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her hand. “How funny would it be if he knocked right now? You could pretend to be my boyfrie-”</p><p> </p><p>The stars aligned. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Knckknckknck </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Piper’s eyes went wide, her mouth a perfect ‘o’. She slowly looked down at her hands. “Mama Murphy wants what I have…” She whispered. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Knckknckknckknckcknckcnkncknck</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Persistent.” He stretched his shoulders. “Not for long.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>As the heavy footfalls ran from the door and down the hallway, Piper wrapped her arms around his neck and smothered his cheeks in that godd*mn lipstick. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re an angel and I’d die for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You will if this doesn’t come off.”</p><p> </p><p>Piper only hummed, kissing the bridge of his nose. “Should’ve gotten makeup wipes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Should've let that Deathclaw eat you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You love me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only a little.” The confession wasn’t one that you’d might think. Not a confession of romantic feelings, but of genuine gratefulness. He was grateful for a friend, for a distraction on a Sunday morning when he’d been in a dark head. It took a little force to get it out, but he said it and meant it. She leaned back, grinning. “If you tell anyone, you’re done for.” It was a joke, she knew that, just teasing and a way for him to soften the blow to his fortress walls. Piper only giggled, pressing another kiss to his temple.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps approached the door, and a Natalie Wright burst into the room with a large crate of strawberries, held over her head like the Olympic Torch. “I got the strawber- ARE YOU TWO-!?”</p><p> </p><p>Piper held her hand out, the adult magic gesture for <em> ‘hush’. </em> “ X dealt with that Brotherhood guy for us. I’m just showing <em> platonic affection </em> for my friend who helped me. Friends <em> can do that </em>, Nat.” She said gently, trying to explain affection to a girl living in a very unaffectionate world. </p><p> </p><p>Nat gawked, dropping the crate to the floor. “PIPER.” She pointed her full arm behind them, to the kitchen. “THE F*CKING PANCAKES.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 turned. Four pillars of smoke slowly made their way to the-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>BRIIIIINNGBRRIIIIIINGGBRIIIIING</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>God d*mn it. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I....am so sorry for how late this was. I had to go back and rewrite like 7 sections of this because they sucked. </p><p>Sinner by Andy Grammer is a good song for this particular chapter ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Strange Paradox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which X tries to comfort, and someone tries to comfort him. Both times make his skin crawl.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would like to give a shoutout to TinyFakeFanficRock, for being the only person to be able to comment before I went back over chapter 7, after it was uploaded, noticed that I forgot to delete most of the issues I had to rewrite, then deleted the chapter rather than edit in Ao3's cr*p writing box. Congrats, you saw the murder scene before the FBI cleaned it up!</p><p>See, I use GoogleDocs, and after writing a draft, I go back over, leave comments on what to fix, and then go over them one by one. </p><p>Instead of deleting the comment-highlighted section, I rewrite it, then compare the old version to the new edit. So, I forgot to delete all of those old versions. </p><p>I also used the ELEPHANT method, where when I was stuck on a piece of dialogue, I wrote ELEPHANT to come back to when I had ideas. I did not go back to it. There was just the word ELEPHANT, italicized and bolded, after a piece of Jess's/Boswel's dialogue. </p><p>There were also many grammar mistakes I missed. In my defense, I've been panicking about getting this out before Friday. </p><p>ANYWAY, I'd appreciate people sharing this/leaving comments! Comments and seeing people actually bother with this is what gives me motivation to write - hell, getting comments quickly is how I pulled 20k words out of my a** in two weeks.<br/>ps: please let me know If I missed any mistakes/leftover first draft sections so i dont embarrass myself longer than I have to</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Gorgeous little thing, you are.” Mr. Boswel cooed at the suck-up cat as he scratched under her chin.  Both of them completely ignored the courser, favoring the other’s attention. The Director had knocked, saying they needed to go check out Somerville, and then saw the Siamese hovering at her owner’s ankles and wouldn’t elaborate further.</p><p> </p><p>X6 cleared his throat. “Sir. The mission?”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel rubbed at Pyewhacket’s cheeks. “Ah, yeah. I guess it’s Valentine’s Day on the Deathclaw calendar, if you get my meaning. They’ve been coming from the Sea to...<em> mingle </em>...and the last thing we need is horny lizards taking a roll in our hay farms.” He stroked down her back, the cat arching up into the attention. “One actually jumped over the wall - didn’t hurt anyone, thank the Lord, too busy chasing tail, but I’d rather not chance our people’s safety betting on Deathclaw sex drives over-powering their love of human flesh.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” X6 pinched the bridge of his nose, “Refrain from talking about the mating habits of Deathclaws in my apartment more than you have to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t like my lizard sex jokes?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>The Director shrugged cheekily, a lopsided grin spread across his weathered face. “Anyway, we need to up defenses, that’s for sure, but we also need to make sure they aren’t going to dig, nest nearby, or be attracted to anything in the town.” He said, going over the mental checklist. “I <em> am </em>worried about Behemoths coming around to hunt, too. Might have to take Μονομάχος and go on an extermination spree again.” The man tilted his head, referencing the first time they’d traveled together without Institute ordination. </p><p> </p><p>Μονομάχος, meaning <em> ‘Gladiator’ </em> according to the Greek-dutchman, was said man’s X-01 suit that he’d only recently finished upon meeting X6. Their first <em> ‘bonding exercises’, </em>as put by the Director, was running around the Commonwealth and picking fights with large enemies, like Behemoths and Mirelurk Queens and Deathclaws. The courser didn’t know whether to be impressed or irritated - on one hand, engaging with high-level threats for fun was stupid. On the other, watching the not-yet-but-soon-to-be Director in jet-packed Power Armor raining Gauss rounds from sky upon the worst of wasteland filth was really f*cking cool. </p><p> </p><p>X6 chewed on the inside of his cheek. Mr. Boswel perked up, hoping the courser would buy what he was selling - which was a bloodbathed adventure full of spent ammo casing and probably explosions. </p><p> </p><p>Of course he wanted to, but…</p><p> </p><p>“I’d normally bite, but I’m not sure I can leave her alone for long.” He gestured to the cat rubbing against the Director’s hands. Pyewhacket meowed, fluffy tail flicking lazily.</p><p> </p><p>“Just get Pip-”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“If she can’t make pancakes, she can’t take care of the cat.”</p><p><br/>
“...Nick?”</p><p> </p><p>Nope, nope, nope, nonononononono, not at all, absolutely not, get out of here, shut the door behind you, <em>no.</em> Not even going there. “What about-”</p><p> </p><p>“Danse is off in Warwick training some new recruits and fixing turrets.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe-”</p><p> </p><p>“Curie is dealing with a flu going around in Egret.”</p><p> </p><p>“Could-”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> that </em> desperate to avoid <em> Nick </em> you’d ask <em> Deacon </em>? He’s scouting in Somerville.”</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring the fact that Mr. Boswel did hear about the little blow-up; “Preston?”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel paused, eyeing at the ceiling. He nodded. “At the Castle, but should be back by tomorrow. We can head out later in the evening, give him time to recuperate and you to offer. He’s a cat guy, too, so I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” Pie rubbed against the Director’s legs. “Especially with a lady this cute.” He said as an afterthought, leaning down to rub behind her ears.</p><p> </p><p>X6 crossed his arms and sighed. “Preston it is. Now get out of here, and take your humor with you.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>The bunkhouse seemed exceptionally more threatening and aggravating than it did before. It hadn’t changed, only it’s residents did. MacCready had moved out recently as well, having saved enough caps to buy a bungalow by the river. Mr. Boswel had offered him a free apartment, like he had with X6 and Piper, but the mercenary said he wanted to <em> ‘make his own way’. </em>Him moving was, without a doubt, because of Duncan. While the rest of them had been happy to play family with the boy, MacCready had felt horrible about forcing a small child onto them.</p><p> </p><p>So, MacCready was gone, Piper was gone, X6 was gone, and Danse had moved out long ago into Mr. Boswel’s place. That left Curie, Preston, Nick, Cait, Deacon, and Dogmeat. </p><p> </p><p>They’d really flown the coop, didn’t they?</p><p> </p><p>Going back didn’t feel right. </p><p> </p><p>He’d left what was meant to be home about two months ago. The Institute had been all he’d known, all clean and sterile and white. Moving into the bunkhouse with its walls cluttered with trinkets and signs, unknown stains and perpetual layer of dirt in the entrance hall had been...what did the Director call it? Culture shock. It was a culture shock. </p><p><br/>
Sure, X did know what the wasteland and its people were like, but he didn’t live with them. He’d never been woken up at 3 in the morning because an Irish woman tried to make eggs, never watched a BoS soldier blanche as a ghoul junkie mayor recounted his strangest sexual exploits, never had someone touch him without it hurting or being purely clinical. </p><p> </p><p>Well, he had, but it had been so long he’d forgotten that touch wasn’t meant to hurt or be cold. The first time someone touched him without violence or impersonal maintenance was Curie. It was in his first month around them. He fetched some medical equipment for her, and she tried to hug him. So used to the movement, he’d thrown her into the wall thinking she was attacking him. </p><p> </p><p>It took a while, but eventually the other residents realized, no, he wasn’t trying to kill her. He just didn’t know what a hug was. </p><p> </p><p>The way their faces fell and they obviously shared a collective realization still made him sick. It was like they all figured out that he was cold because he’d never known warmth.</p><p> </p><p>Again, he had. But the fire burned out a long time ago, and the frost set in quickly. </p><p> </p><p>Curie hadn’t minded the bruising on her arm where he grabbed or on her back where it collided with the wall. She asked him if he was uncomfortable with touch, or if she could try again with his consent.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a loaded question but it felt like it. Allow her, and he’d be warming up. Deny, and he’d be expressing discomfort and setting a boundary for himself. It wasn’t loaded, it was something that she’d asked because she cared, but he could never seem to just accept things for what they were. Everything had to be difficult, couldn’t be innocent or true.</p><p> </p><p>He stood across the street, hiding in an alleyway. It wasn’t the detective he was worried about. Nick was gone, away at DC working on a case with his cupids.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Stop overthinking and just go.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Skulking up the yellow door, that distinct feeling of <em> wrong </em>wrapped around his shoulders, down his spine. Like the drop in your stomach after hearing bad news, the sour ball in the back of your throat. X6 shook out the tingling dread, knocking on the door. He had a key, but...he didn’t live there. You don’t just go barging into a house that isn’t yours.</p><p> </p><p>The shuffling towards the door was...off-beat. Clunky. X6 frowned. Had Preston received a leg injury while away? X6 had argued against sending them all off on their own when Mr. Boswel had suggested they didn’t need to move as one unit for this reason. What if Preston hadn’t made it back? What if Curie, Danse, Deacon, were injured or killed while away?</p><p> </p><p>Preston opened the door, slouching uncharacteristically. “Morning, X.” He mumbled tiredly. “Jess send you over for something?”</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, Colonel Garvey. Actually, he did.” X6 admitted, hands clasped behind his back, fidgeting with the button on his sleeve. Preston seemed...off. Tired, but not like the expected exhaustion. His posture, his tone of voice, something about him wasn’t quite right. The courser didn’t detect any alcohol, so he wasn’t drunk...but glancing past the Minuteman’s shoulder, he could see an unopened six-pack at the table.</p><p> </p><p>It was 9 A.M. Preston Alphonse Garvey <em> did not drink </em>before 5 P.M. </p><p> </p><p>Preston rubbed his neck. His eyes were...besides from the obvious darkening of his bags, they struck X as being flat. “Yeah, Castle’s fine. Got some new recruits.” He said quietly. No report, no optimistic praise of how fast the Minutemen were growing, no mention of any work to be done. </p><p> </p><p>X6 dug his nails into the flesh of his palm. Problems were something he had to fix - coursers were the active problem-solvers, that was their job. There was a problem, and he had no idea what the f*ck it was. Like knowing you’re in Deathclaw territory and not seeing any - it wasn’t a good thing, <em> not </em> seeing Deathclaws in Deathclaw territory was the worst possible thing, because they <em> were there </em> , but you didn’t <em> know </em>where they were. He cleared his throat, trying to sooth the acrid knot. “Excellent. If you’re off-duty for the week, I had a favor to ask.”</p><p> </p><p>Preston nodded, stood to the side and let the courser enter. </p><p> </p><p>X6’s anxiety was reaching its peak. The last time he’d been this nervous was when he got stuck between two married settlers’ fight that ended in their divorce.</p><p> </p><p>The colonel sunk into a kitchen chair while X took in the bunkhouse. Nothing had changed, except for some new additions to the wall of stolen signs - he squinted. There were signs from the cafeteria in the Institute. F*ckers. </p><p> </p><p>No one there but Preston, and despite knowing that there’s four others who still live there...the house feels empty. There’s little things that show that it’s still occupied - Cait’s glass left out, Curie’s books left all over, Nick’s ashtray by the window. This was home. Loud and chaotic and a mess of barely functional adults trying to combine their brain cells to make one whole adult. Now, it was quiet, still. </p><p> </p><p>“So...what did you need?” Preston asked. His voice creaked with enervation. Preston was always neat and tidy, put together, always using his best manners and speaking with a pleasant demeanor. In the foggy light pouring in from the kitchen window, every fiber in X6’s body screamed that something was out of place. </p><p> </p><p>X6 leaned against the kitchen island, crossing his arms. “Mr. Boswel asked me to accompany him to Somerville on a security check. While I’m gone, I need someone to take care of Pyewhacket.”</p><p><br/>
“Bless you.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“You sneezed?”</p><p> </p><p>X6 tilted his head. “Pyewhacket is her name.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s name?” Preston’s brow raised, and he yawned. Maybe he was groggy? That had to have been it, surely. Everything was fine, X6 was just jumpy and nothing was wrong, Preston was just sleepy. The six-pack could have been Cait’s, or a gift from Sturges to welcome the colonel back. Everything was probably fine. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” He hadn’t talked to Preston since the day he’d moved out. They’d crossed paths while X had a box under his arm and a duffel bag swung over his shoulder, and he’d asked where the courser was going. Laughed, told him he would leave himself if any of them knew how to actually cook. An amicable farewell, not like Cait’s snark that it was <em> ‘just a jacket’. </em>“Pyewhacket is my siamese cat.” </p><p> </p><p>Preston sat up a little straighter. “...<em> you </em>. Have a cat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>The other man only hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “Cats are pretty self-sufficient. You just need me to check on her?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just make sure she isn’t dead and has food and water. We’ll be gone for a week at most.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>No <em> ‘Happy to help!’ </em> . No <em> ‘Always glad to do what I can!’. </em> No anything. </p><p> </p><p>Coursers were highly empathetic - not sympathetic, <em> empathetic </em>. They could detect other’s feelings, sense the room’s energy. It wasn’t nerves, something was wrong and his training and body picked up on it. </p><p> </p><p>Analyze the area, pick out the details noticed. Preston was detached, behaving resignedly. All speech patterns showed a sort of defeated mood. His body language was fatigued, heavy, like he was dragging his limbs, thinking of the movement, rather then performing it naturally. </p><p> </p><p>From the short conversation, the colonel showed an unwillingness to talk about his trip, day, or about the cat, suggesting he was socially/emotionally distanced. </p><p> </p><p>X quickly added to information together, detecting the known pattern of behavior from the man.</p><p> </p><p>Well, sh*t.</p><p> </p><p>Preston had depressive episodes before. It was how X knew what this was. But the hard part was detecting how bad this episode was. Preston’s bad days were, outwardly, all the same - one day you’d think he was doing horribly, but he’d be mostly fine, the other you’d leave for a moment and he’d be having a panic attack while doing dishes. You couldn’t gauge how safe he was or if his mental state would take a nosedive. </p><p> </p><p>X6 glanced at the door. He could leave, he got a sitter for Pie, this wasn’t his responsibility. Even if he wasn’t in one of the safer episodes, Preston wouldn’t kill himself if he’d made a promise, he’d be fine. Besides, Sturges checked on him daily while everyone was away. </p><p> </p><p>He carefully studied Preston’s face. His eyes were empty. Foggy. Like there was a haze in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>The man would be fine. But <em> ‘fine’ </em> was always an unacceptable standard for X6.</p><p> </p><p>X6 grit his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you...feeling well, Colonel Garvey?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>How do Nick and Mr. Boswel do it so effortlessly? How do you ask someone if they’re feeling suicidal without tripping over your tongue? How do you let someone know you’re there for them after shoving them away and treating them like sh*t?</p><p> </p><p>Preston hesitated. His eyebrow twitched, like he noticed something about the courser but wouldn’t comment on it. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little worn out.” He said in a voice laced with lethargy.</p><p> </p><p>He asked, he did it! There was an attempt at emotional conversation, and Preston was either telling the truth or didn’t want to talk about it, so he should leave, right? Clearly he’d done all he could. He’d asked, showed he noticed and cared enough to ask, and Preston didn’t go into detail, so it was fine. The door begged him to run out of it. Like how he’d begged Nick to leave him, leave a machine to his demons, even when his cardiovascular engine pleaded for someone to care enough to stay, see past the defenses, get past the castle walls. He’d pushed everyone away, he couldn’t complain when they left, that's childish. But Preston wasn’t pushing away. He was collapsing into himself, and could be falling into a dark rabbit hole that he might not be able to get out of if X6 walked out the door. </p><p> </p><p>“No, you’re obviously not.” X6 pointed at the six-pack of beer. “Cait doesn’t drink Trillium and you don’t drink in the morning.” Preston flinched, and the courser could almost hear the man cursing himself for not putting the cardboard carrier of bottles away. The whole...<em> situation </em>...felt not dissimilar to interrogations he’d done on runners, traitors, information sources...probably because he was staring down the other man from across the kitchen, while Preston was trying to camouflage himself into the table. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Your fear of human interaction is not going to help this. Get over yourself and do something.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>As much as he hated that little voice, it was one of logic and reason. Stiffly, he treaded to the table, taking a seat across from an angel who went through hell and came out silent. Preston only blinked at him, and honestly? The courser didn’t blame him. X6 was the absolute last person you’d think would try and talk feelings with someone in an episode.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to push - and don’t you <em> dare </em>mention this to anyone - but if you need to talk-”</p><p> </p><p>Preston jumped in his chair. “Are yo-” He sprung up, pacing around the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his head, glancing bewildered looks at the courser that was trying to not screw this up. “Are you actually trying to talk about...<em> emotions… </em>?” The Minuteman laughed, wheezy. “Sh*t, do I really look so bad right now that X6-88, Stone-Cold A**hole, is worried?” </p><p> </p><p>X6 froze, weighing his options. Play it cool, deny, act like it’s purely business and worry for his cat, or be f*cking honest for <em> once in his life </em> and <em> tell </em> someone that he <em> did </em>care?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘F*ck the castle walls, f*ck the courser outside, get the f*ck out of this cell.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” X6 cleared his throat, the fist-sized soreness in behind his adam’s apple stinging. “Well, you don’t look that bad but- I…” <em> ‘Get out, get out, get out’ </em>“I give a sh*t about your well-being, alright?” He bit out, the confession tasting like poison on his tongue. </p><p> </p><p>Preston paused, eyebrows flying into his hairline as he realized that X6 was being genuine. Being genuine, and open with his own feelings and worries. Rarer than a f*cking unicorn. “You’re serious.”</p><p> </p><p>“Unfortunately.”</p><p> </p><p>The Minuteman whistled, wide-awake now that he knew he was in for something never seen before, a once in a lifetime experience, the proof that Aliens existed - X6-88 not being an emotionally-inept harda**. “Well, sh*t. Here I thought I was keeping it on the down-low. If you’re really offering an ear, I’d suggest having one of these.” He plucked a bottle from the cardboard, sliding it over to the courser.</p><p> </p><p>X6 did not drink, ever, but in this one, 0.000001 in a million, never-before seen event, a beer with a compatriot while he vented about his mental health seemed appropriate. Hell, maybe he’d forget this happened at all. That’d be nice. </p><p> </p><p>He awkwardly took his own bottle while Preston fetched a bottle opener, tossing the metal claw at the courser and opening his own with his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>The cap popped off with a <em> ‘ping!’ </em> and X’s nose was assaulted with the smell of hops. It’s a contender for the worst thing he’s ever smelled, but that title stuck with the time he had to go through Mahkra Fishpacking. He stilled shuddered at that day - Mr. Boswel and Nick were strolling through, chatting animatedly about the potential uses for all the scrap, while he was crawling on his hands and knees, crying, gagging, trying to not throw up his organs <em> (his stomach’s contents had already been lost) </em>and get as close to clean air as possible. The smell of rotten fish, oil and grease, rusted metal, the poisonous, toxic stench had fumigated the entire factory, tainting the oxygen 2 feet from the floor. By the time he’d scuttled out into the fresh air of day, he was boneless, openly sobbing, shaking on the concrete. </p><p> </p><p>He took a sip of the beer to wash away the trauma, only to nearly gag at the bitterness. Beer was just fermented wheat, right? God, why did people <em> drink this </em>?</p><p> </p><p>Preston clearly didn’t share the sentiment, taking a generous swig from his bottle that half-emptied it. He wiped his mouth on his arm. “Alright. I...don’t really do this, but,” The Minutemen gestured at him with the bottle. “Like hell am I gonna throw away the chance to see big bad X6-88 talk depression. Sh*t, thought the craziest thing I’d see was Danse admitting he was wrong. But this? This is like watching Curie swear.”</p><p> </p><p>“She doesn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the point. Curie has the language of the Virgin Mary. I don’t think anything could make her lose her temper.” He chuckled. “But if she did, bet it’d be the scariest thing to see.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘I’d know this anywhere, I f*cking do it. He’s deflecting, distracting, trying to draw the conversation away from himself.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What happened at the Castle, Garvey?”</p><p> </p><p>He stiffened, ever so slightly, sighed and leaned back in his chair. Stared at the ceiling. </p><p> </p><p>“So, turns out one of my guys from Quincy made it out.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 took another sip as the Minuteman threw back the beer, mimicking, following along. Shuddering at the strangely sour alcohol, he pressed further. “And?”</p><p> </p><p>Preston didn’t meet his eye. Just watched the ceiling fan spin idly, swirled the beer in his nearly-empty bottle. He was quiet for a moment, lost in somewhere else. “His name was Trent Richmond. Combat medic, came from a settlement near Salem. Joined the Minutemen so his mother would stop hounding him to get married.” Emptied the bottle, fetched another one, opened with his teeth. “Said he’d been at the southern gates when the Gunners hit, watched our sniper get shot in the shoulder by theirs, dragged him into a basement to patch him up. Something exploded, the only way out for them was an escape tunnel that led to Malden. Sniper died to Mutants, he headed back home.”</p><p> </p><p>The courser analysed the verbal chess board. He could push, but Preston might withdraw. Stay back, let the man come to him, and he could be waiting forever. He pressed the attack. “Did finding another survivor from Quincy trigger your PTSD?” Find the problem, identify and attack it at its source. Preston shook his head. </p><p> </p><p>“No, that’d be the talk we had.”</p><p> </p><p>For all his good karma, Preston wasn’t a well-liked man. People called him obsessed, bland and boring, too boy-scout cartoony to take seriously. X couldn’t blame them - the man’s soul bled out from the scars stained into his body. He’d always wondered what he’d be like if he didn’t have the ghosts of a life-time soldier at 24. Preston always looked too old and too young. Was he an old soul at heart, or would he have been a sunny-smiled, hyper young adult like he should have been? How much was Quincy and how much was who he genuinely was?</p><p> </p><p>X6 had asked similar questions about himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Go on.”</p><p> </p><p>Preston drowned down another beer in one go, reaching for another one. Normally. X would have berated him, or anyone, for drinking so much at such an early time. But now, in the still, sleepy morning haze, he’d let the man sooth himself in the way he knew how. “Richie didn’t come back to sign up again, like I’d hoped. Just stared me down and asked if this would all be worth it.” He clenched his eyes shut. “Told me that Colonel Hollis was an idiot, I was an idiot for trying to start the Minutemen back up again, Jessie was an idiot for playing a hero…” </p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re <em> soft </em> , but <em> please </em>don’t tell me you believe that bullsh*t.”</p><p> </p><p>Look, X6 was X6. There’s only so much mushy sweet sh*t he could spit out. </p><p> </p><p>The Minuteman laughed, short and hollow and empty. “No, I argued with him. I told him that Jess was the best d*mn thing to happen to us, things were gonna be different…” He took a drink. “And then he went an’ asked if they would. Suggested that Sanctuary was gonna be the next Quincy, and then I just...fell the f*ck apart. All it would take is one greedy and manipulative S.O.B, and people who’d listen to them. That’s what Clint was. Who’s to say one of our guys thinks he isn’t getting a fair share, <em> then burns it all to the d*mn ground?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Because I, you, or Mr. Boswel would shoot them in the <em> f*cking head </em> before they could they open their mouth.” X6 did something he’d rarely do willingly, something he would do just this once. He took off his sunglasses, slipped them over his shirt hem and let them hang at his collarbone. Eye contact was the worst thing in the world, but humans seemed to need it in situations like this. “If you think for even a moment that I’d let someone go against Mr. Boswel, you’ve been drinking too much.”</p><p> </p><p>Preston leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and hanging his head. “I don’t know. I’d like to think that we’re gonna be okay, but what’s what I thought before we weren’t.” He said with a soft dreadfulness, the voice of a man steeling himself for something that felt inevitable. That was the case with most things in the ‘Wealth - if it seemed too good to be true, it wouldn’t last.</p><p> </p><p>The puzzle pieces revealed themselves, the problem spotted, source identified. It wasn’t about the past. It was about the future being haunted by it, following in its footsteps.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes I hear something bang in the night - it’s usually just Cait or Curie dropping a book - but I swear its like we’re still there. That all of this is just some dream and I’m crazy and trying to just...die <em> happy </em>. Like my head made this little world where everything is good, but really I’m watching the city burn or Kyle get shot or the only other Minutemen who made it out with me get overwhelmed by ferals and eaten right there on the pavement and it’s just-” He cut himself off, buried his face in his hands. “It’s over but it isn’t, and I don’t know if it’ll just happen again.”</p><p> </p><p>What was there to say to that? Some cookie-cutter <em> ‘It’ll be okay’ </em>? How do you comfort someone when you can’t even comfort yourself over the same thing? </p><p> </p><p>You be honest.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t say I know what you’re going through. But I <em> can </em> say, <em> with confidence, </em> that you’re the <em> strongest son of a b*tch out here </em> for it.” He sat up straighter, leaned forward. “Most people would have crumbled the moment everything went to sh*t.” </p><p> </p><p>Preston opened his mouth, but X held his hand up. “I’m not done. I haven’t even <em> started </em> . <em> Firstly </em> , you’re worried about the Minutemen falling apart again. Secondly, you’re afraid of losing Sanctuary. Thirdly, your survivor’s guilt is kicking in.” He cracked his knuckles. Problems identified, mission parameters laid out. Attack each point one by one. Line them up, knock them down. “About the Minutemen: Boswel could talk down a Deathclaw. He can keep a growing army under control, and running optimally. Even if some good-for-nothing wasteland trash thought they could out-talk him, he’s also smarter than most of the <em> Institute scientists </em> . He’d find out before they’d even <em> say anything </em> to suggest they’d turned coats.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 rose from his chair. “As for Sanctuary being taken by the Gunners, have you seen the walls outside? Those walls are 15 feet high, 4 feet thick, and reinforced steel. We have guards armed to the teeth, some in Power Armor, on a 24/7 schedule, and every kind of turret imaginable. A few miles out are scouts and watchtowers to alert us before anything can even get within a 5 mile radius. I think you're forgetting that<em> I’m </em> in charge of all of these things, in <em> every single settlement. </em> If even one Gunner gets past the threshold that <em> I’ve designed </em>to maximise threat deterrence, I’ll allow Cait to take my virginity.”</p><p> </p><p>The Minuteman got in a ‘But-’, thinking the courser would A: let this go, or B: stop getting riled up. He was wrong. </p><p> </p><p>“And finally,” X6 Leaned over the table, something only someone his height could do without having to climb over it. He didn’t notice the excessive hand gestures he had to have picked up from Piper. Pinching the air, stressing his point, “The only reason you lost Quincy is because of Clint. If that motherf*cker had an ounce of loyalty, the Minutemen likely would have kept Quincy until the Gunners gave up after losing resources by not being able to commit. Clint was the only one who knew to blow up the highway - any other Gunner wouldn’t have for fear of it jeopardizing or compromising the mission.” Preston’s jaw tightened. It was the truth that X6 knew hurt - if it wasn’t his fault, he had to accept the fact that they stood no chance. If he blamed himself, he could pretend like there was a world where the Minutemen came out on top.  X6 glared down at the Minuteman. “You <em> cannot </em> spend your life thinking that you have control or responsibility over other people’s actions. You are responsible for <em> you </em> , and everything, <em> everything </em> , is outside of your control in the grand scheme of things. Bad things <em> will </em> happen not because you deserve it or caused it, but because that’s life, and life’s a <em> b*tch.” </em> </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly aware of how much of Preston’s bubble he was invading, X6 stood straight, no longer a perfect right angle. “Because <em>you</em> survived and kept going, the Minutemen are back and stronger than ever. And because of that, the Commonwealth now has clean running water, plenty of food, rapidly developing settlements, and more importantly, is a giant middle finger to the Gunners. All because you didn’t stop when things became difficult. <em> No one else </em> would have done that - they would have given up, hung up their hats and gone home like that Trent d*ckhead. <em> You </em> kept going, even when no one wanted you to. A smart man once told me that the best revenge is to make things better than they ever were. Preston, you did that. You’re in a <em> luxury </em> settlement, and the Gunners and Clint still use bedpans. Who do you think <em> won </em> ? The swamp-a** <em> cavemen </em>living in rubble, or the guy who can have a hot, high-pressure shower every day?”</p><p> </p><p>Preston stared, slack-jawed and wide eyed, speechless. There was a few moments of silence, and the awareness, the realization that maybe he’d been overzealous, started to settle in. “That was…” Preston choked out, tongue wrapped around his own confusion. “...probably one of the...best pep talks I’ve ever seen.” He said puzzledly, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Like he wasn’t expecting X6 to be the best at any and everything he did.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course it was, I don’t half-a** anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, like…” Preston sat up, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to make sense of the situation before him. “Like that was actually...good? And it came from...you. Of all people, <em> you </em> are good at <em> pep talks </em>…?” The colonel tilted his head, the reality that presented itself just too d*mn weird for it set in. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m highly intelligent, brutally honest, and use facts and logic. Your depression is the exact opposite - an infant would have offered a better debate.” He scoffed, only slightly offended that Preston would doubt his skills in...well, no, actually it was very fair for him to assume that the courser was poor in social interaction. He was, but only when he was the subject.</p><p> </p><p>Preston laughed, soft and disbelieving. “How are you so uplifting and supportive, while being such an egomaniac?” He took another charitable swig from his almost-forgotten beer bottle. “Sh*t though, seriously. I didn’t take you for a hype man, but Jesus Christ. That was better than the one Jess gave me.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 couldn’t help but puff his chest out. Praise was praise, godd*mnit, and being not just compared, but put above the Director’s skill in something? Oh, how he’d be insufferable for the next few weeks. Deacon, if you can sense this, run, f*cker, no amount of jokes can save you.</p><p> </p><p>“What was better than the one Jess gave you?” Nick asked from the doorway, hanging up his coat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>F*CK.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>MOMENT RUINED, OUT THE WINDOW B*TCH <em> GO </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The feathers smoothed, his chest deflated, every escape route was blocked f*ck f*ck f*ck why oh why oh why was Nick there?! He was gone! Plastic a**hole left that morning, he’d checked security camera footage and saw him go down the bridge! </p><p> </p><p>“Nick, you’re not gonna believe this!” Preston called, grinning. “X willingly started a conversation about <em> feelings!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘PRESTON WHY-’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Is that so?” Nick smirked, and <em> dear f*cking god </em>he didn’t have his sunglasses on. The synth HAD to see the look of feral terror in his eyes. Without his glasses, the way his eyes widened in pure fear had to be obvious. </p><p> </p><p>Oh no. </p><p> </p><p>He had to kill both of them.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, can hardly believe it myself.” Preston leaned back in his chair, the front legs hovering above the kitchen floor. He almost slipped, but caught himself. “Never had someone tell me <em> ‘f*ck your feelings’ </em>in such a supportive way.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick chuckled shortly, walking behind the frozen courser, absolute feral monkey instincts telling him to stay still and the predator wouldn’t see him. He patted X on the shoulder, lingering for a brief moment with a small squeeze. “Guess it’d be kinda hard to talk heart with a guy that feels with his head. You take your meds yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Preston blinked, looked down at the three beer bottles and then at the clock. “...Whoops.” He winced. </p><p> </p><p>The synth rolled his eyes, fetching a pack of cigarettes from a bureau. “Take ‘em later or wait until tomorrow, and don’t tell Curie or she’ll have your hide. As for you,” Nick turned to X6.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for keeping an eye on him, talking him out of his funk. I’m sure he’d be fine,” Nick ruffled Preston’s curly hair, much to the younger man’s indignant chagrin. “But I’d rather not take the chance.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nick slipped a lighter from his slack pocket, lighting a cigarette and heading out onto the back porch. </p><p> </p><p>For the most part, he ignored the courser.</p><p> </p><p>Preston sighed at the half-full beer bottle, undoubtedly kicking himself for forgetting he had to take medication in less than an hour. He chugged the last of the hell liquid, coughing. “Anyway, yeah, I can keep an eye on your cat while you’re-”</p><p> </p><p>“Okaythanksbye!” X6 blurted out, barreling out the door and down the street, sprinting through the town until he collapsed inside of his apartment.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Well then. That was a horror show.” Mr. Boswel declared, hands on his hips, as he surveyed the aftermath of the almost-nightmare, 5-front, free-for-all brawl that had taken place just north east of Somerville. </p><p> </p><p>They’d found a lone Deathclaw, and just when they opened fire, a Gunner squad also opened fire. On them. Then a Mutant hunting party came from the right. To the left, an entire gang of raiders descended on the four unsuspecting groups, being the Deathclaws <em> (plural, there was a cave the supposedly lone Deathclaw was guarding that was a d*mn nest of the things), </em>the Gunners, the Mutants, and the duo.</p><p> </p><p>Everything had approached from all sides. To the north, Gunners were sniping at them. East were the Deathclaws charging. South, Mutants. West, raiders. They’d been caught in the middle of it, the target all four opposing sides were trying to take them down. </p><p> </p><p>How the f*ck did they even make it out of this?</p><p> </p><p>The earth was stained with blood, all around them painted red. Bodies littered the ground, bones and flesh and broken armor and split hide splattered and thrown from excessive use of explosives. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel hadn’t even flinched, just whistled and told him to keep shooting until nothing was moving. Now, he stood in the epicenter of the carnage, flowery presence unfaltering. “Well, I guess we took care of the Deathclaws. We can head back, treat ourselves to a hot shower, and get started on defense work tomorrow.” He threw his shotgun’s sling over his shoulder, turned to his Pipboy and tuned into DC radio. The sound of <em> ‘Anything Goes’ </em>blared through the speaker, and it was immediately turned off.</p><p> </p><p>“Why do you always have music playing?” X6 asked, jogging to catch up with the Director. “The noise attracts threats and it makes it harder to hear them approaching. It’s completely inconvenient.” </p><p> </p><p>He shrugged, reloading his revolver. “Υιός, we didn’t expect any of those tools, did we? And look at us - we’re just fine. A little lighter in the ammo bags, sure. But the best challenge is one you didn’t expect.” Mr. Boswel grinned, delighting in the way X6 balked. </p><p> </p><p>“Every day, I grow more and more confused as to how you made it to the Institute.”</p><p> </p><p>“I put on the radio, and everything that wants me dead comes charging at me. It makes it easier to shoot them!”</p><p> </p><p>X6 rolled his eyes, trudging through the swamp. Distantly, the clattering of a Mirelurk Queen from Murkwater echoed throughout the boggy air. He tsked. Every time they left, another fish b*tch took the last one’s place. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel cleared his throat. “So. How’ve you been lately?”</p><p> </p><p>“I just had a four-front fire fight, and I’m hiking through the worst part of the Commonwealth. Just peachy.”</p><p> </p><p>The Director chuckled softly. “Glad you enjoy your work.” He straightened a bit. The air around him turned different, the way it did when something was...off. When the conversation turned into something less business and more personal. “But, I was asking how you were doing with…” He gestured vaguely at everything and nothing. “All of this. All of the new developments and changes. I know the Institute isn’t what you had wanted it to become, and I’m still grateful you allowed me to reform it, but…” </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel never, <em> ever </em>, trailed off before. </p><p> </p><p>“Sir, is there something wrong?” </p><p> </p><p>“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Mr. Boswel said with a hint of a bitter laugh, stepping over a fallen tree. “Uh...Nick told me about your...you know. The jacket thing.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Of course. Of. F*cking. Course. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s nothing to talk about.”  X6 snapped, shoulders tensing. </p><p> </p><p>“But, if there ever was,” Mr. Boswel said gently, softly, “I’d hope you’d know that you could come to me, or any of the others, for help.”</p><p> </p><p>X’s jaw tightened. “Affirmative.”</p><p> </p><p>Translation: What the f*ck ever. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel hummed, nodded. Conversation over, thank god.</p><p> </p><p>It was about thirty minutes, still a few miles away from Somerville, when the Director spoke up again. The morning fog had overtaken the swamp, every little movement a shadow dancing in the miasmic air. Dead trees stuck out from the earth like spikes waiting for a head to be shoved onto them. In that marsh, the sickly, putrid light pierced through the irradiated woods like daggers. At least it was silent.</p><p> </p><p>X6 grew more uncomfortable by the minute.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“How’s apartment life treating you?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence ruined.</p><p> </p><p>X held in a sigh, trudging through the heavy mud and bog water. “It’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel whistled. “That might be the worst thing you can say about apartment life. How sh*tty are your neighbors?”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you get that from ‘it’s fine’?”</p><p> </p><p>“I lived in an apartment throughout college. Didn’t want to get stuck in a dorm. Looking back, think the dorm would have been...at least <em> funny </em>, at some point.” Mr. Boswel tilted his head, much like a puppy. It was weird, at first, how much the man used head gestures more than hand gestures, but the courser learned quickly that everything within a 5 mile radius of the man was weird. “The rent was cr*p, it should have been condemned, my neighbors-” He cut himself off, pulling a face and shuddering. </p><p> </p><p>X6 raised an eyebrow, resuming his stiff march alongside his boss-trying-to-be-father-figure. “What about them?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know the Lord teaches and tells us to practice love, but,” Sh*t, Boswel was bring up his Christianity again. Never a good thing - usually, X6 detested religion and overly-religious people, but the Director rarely talked about his faith. If he did, something, be it the situation or topic, was bad. “I think it was perfectly reasonable to consider homicide, given the circumstances.”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel licked his lip, looking to the sky. “One of the first ones - I had multiple, they kept getting replaced - was this lady, her name was...Joana, she was a classmate of mine. She was also a loony. Completely loony tune. What she’d do was bring over a hook-up, then call her boyfriend to come over. He’d find her in bed with another guy, and they’d be screaming all night until he had to go back to work at 11 in the morning. She moved away when the college expelled her - she stole my bag to plagiarize and sell my research one time, and they didn’t really put up with that sort of thing.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 snickered. Well, really it was just exhaling from his nose, but that was on the same level as a snicker for him. Then, he realized he didn’t really know much about the Director’s education. The man was clearly a prodigy, evidenced by all his accomplishments, but where did he learn his craft? “Where <em> did </em>you go to college?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Harvard.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 opened his mouth to exclaim <em> ‘YOU WENT TO HARVARD!?’ </em>, but the Director beat him to it. “Don’t go all admiration on me - plenty of people could have gone to Harvard if they had the money and class advantage. Harvard wasn’t all smart people - just people who were born into wealth and were given more for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was a good college, but a good college was an expensive one. Expensive isn’t a factor for the capitally-inclined, so most of my classmates were a bunch of rich prats, given some shiny achievement to brag about to anyone who wasn’t handed it. Far too many of them ended up thinking they were these bright, all-knowing minds and found purchase in the government, working as politicians or scientists.” Boswel shook his head, the corner of his lips curling. “I hear people ask how all of this, “ He gestured to the wasteland around them, brows furrowing. “Could have happened. Truth of it is, we had a bunch of people in government, deciding the reality of a world they hadn’t lived in. It was all the privileged who could afford fancy bunkers and a perfect utopia below ground that started sh*t with China, and when China flung their nukes at us, they kept on living underneath the hellscape, blaming the less monetarily-adroit for their radiation burns. They never lived in reality, so it was safe for them to change it.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 considered his words. He frowned. “You’re talking about the Institute and its scientists.” </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel hopped down from the ripped up roots of the tree. “Maybe. Maybe the original scientists were...somewhat grounded, those types are always off the deep end to some extent. But the people down there, right now? They might be smart, but they’re definitely stupid.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s an oxymoron.”</p><p> </p><p>The Director huffed out a laugh. “You’d think. World doesn’t care about what you think, however.”</p><p> </p><p>X weighed the options, ways to continue or end the conversation. He decided to press a subject he didn’t like talking about with the Director. “Why do you hate the Institute’s old methods?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because they were based on the opinions of people who had no idea what they were talking about. People who lived below the wasteland can’t speak for the lives of wastelanders. Hell, not even Father had seen the outside before, yet he went around preaching like a man wearing vestments from a pastor he’d killed.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“So, you didn’t agree with our outlook. What about all of the achievements we’ve accomplished?”</p><p> </p><p>“They were a waste of time and resources.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 waited for a few minutes, noting that he could faintly see the high walls of Somerville in the distance. Getting closer, good. He waited for Boswel to elaborate, but the details never came. </p><p> </p><p>“How so?”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Mr. Boswel glanced at him over his shoulder, studying his countenance for a reason why a courser would willingly ask about the faults of the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>A small part of X wished the man would find it. He could, almost, but the implications made his stomach tie into a knot.</p><p> </p><p>“While I’m a synth advocate, what reason was there to make you lot? What function did you serve other than...taking out the trash? Labor and odd jobs the humans thought themselves above doing? Why did the Institute make you guys besides seeing if they could? They had all of that tech, those resources, and they decided to bioengineer...people. Then they refused to acknowledge you as people because you weren’t made by, to draw from Deacon, inserting Tab A into slot B. All of the time, work, resources - for what? An army of custodians?”</p><p> </p><p>X6’s heart tightened, the defensiveness creeping up his spine, spilling down his shoulders, down his chest. “The synths are one of the most technologically advanced achievements of humankind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, of course. But what do you do?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p><br/>
“What do you do?” Mr. Boswel asked, brows set firm like a stern father trying to prove a point to a rebellious teenage son. “The atom bomb killed civilization. Computers changed the way the world worked. Modern medicine expanded life expectancy. What did synths do? What does your existence do for humanity?”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“We-” X6 tried, tried his <em> d*mndest, </em> to find something to compare, but...he came up empty. What <em> did </em>they do?</p><p> </p><p>“You’re people. The Institute made more people, to fulfil a curiosity and mark off a bucket list checkbox. Meanwhile, the people above starved to death, died of easily treatable diseases if given care, killed each other for clean water. But yeah, making people without the fun part was a great idea, real productive. The Commonwealth didn’t need an asexually produced slave force - it needed basic resources, resources the Institute had, or could have easily created. Instead, they made something to be racist to.” Mr. Boswel scoffed. “I hate to say it, but Maxson was right, about the scientists down there. Humans trying to bring the second doomsday just to see if the glove of God fit their paws. Not through intentional malevolence, but through inaction. By allowing the Commonwealth to suffer, when it didn’t need to, when they could have easily helped, they became the villain though laziness, greed, and pride.”</p><p> </p><p>X6 tensed, hands clasped behind his back, digging his nails into the other hand’s knuckles so hard they’d leave crescent-shaped marks later. Something hot raged in his stomach, venom clawed up his throat, coating his tongue and teeth. “Maybe there’s nothing <em> worth </em> helping up here. But of course <em> you’d </em> think these wasteland maggots deserve anything. At least the Institute didn’t sit on its a** and <em> b*tch </em> about how bad life was, like all of these <em> lazy, good-for-nothing leeches </em> that take advantage of the fact that you’re too <em> f*cking naive </em> to realize that not everyone <em> deserves to be saved!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel stopped in his tracks, caught off guard judging from the way his shoulders squared.</p><p> </p><p>X6 froze, the same way time seemed to.</p><p> </p><p>He’d-</p><p> </p><p>Sh*t.</p><p> </p><p>He’d just snapped at the Director. A courser just <em> insulted </em> the <em> Director, </em> like that was something he could do, like he had all the right in the world to question his authority. </p><p> </p><p>That heat turned cold. Flash freeze, chilly water running down his spine, ice shards ripping through his skin into bone. </p><p> </p><p>He’d gotten comfortable, hadn’t he.</p><p> </p><p>Why else would he think he could mouth off? He never would have with any of the Board members, but Boswel made him feel like...</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>It was a trick, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>All of the comforting when he didn’t need it, the offers of friendship, the insistence that he had rights and a voice, that he was an equal. It was all a trick. A way to make him slip up, lose his guard, try to reach out past the dungeon cell.</p><p> </p><p>Why did he think it would be anything else? The world doesn’t change. <em> Life </em>doesn’t change, and his life was one of servitude and silence. He should have kept his heart sewed to his sleeve, should have kept his mouth shut, should have never doubted the Institute.</p><p>Mr. Boswel turned around, and X felt his heart drop.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have entertained any ideas that weren’t what he already knew. </p><p> </p><p>The Director, the wielder of his leash and cattle prod, stared at him in disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>Apologies were never something he was good at, but it didn’t matter anyway. <em> ‘Sorry’ </em>didn’t mean anything to the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>“...X.”</p><p> </p><p>He felt like puking. </p><p> </p><p>The hot sting of skin breaking, blood spotting over his nails barely registered.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you just assert yourself?” Mr. Boswel said, voice bright with pride. The same voice he used when praising Shaun for good grades, or a successful tinkering project.</p><p> </p><p>What?</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel waded through the mud effortlessly <em> (somehow), </em> sidling up to the courser and throwing his arm tightly around his shoulders. “Hah! Just when I thought we weren’t getting anywhere with you. God, I’ve been waiting for you to do that for <em> months! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Again, but verbally, “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You, my friend, just asserted yourself over your boss. I didn’t think you would, but I was hoping.” Boswel pulled him in, the strange and unexpected embrace turned into...a hug. His boss was hugging him after he’d snapped at him. What the <em> fu </em> - “We didn’t exactly hit it off the first time, but you didn’t seem like you would say anything. Just sit there and fume silently, maybe snark, but not actually <em> question </em>me. Glad to see we’re good enough that you know you can do that now.” </p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t have been weird. Piper hugged him. Curie hugged him. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris used to hug him. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel’s hand squeezed at his bicep, continuing the walk back, pulling the courser along. “I’m glad you’re feeling more confident now. You had me worried for the longest time - didn’t think you’d ever come out of that shell.” </p><p> </p><p><em> “Dr. Paris, your tea is ready. Two sugars, one creamer.” </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> “Ah, thank you, my dear boy.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Will that be all, sir?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “X6, I’m not one of the other stuffy scientists. You don’t need the formalities.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Just following protocol, sir.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, well, your protocol was made by a bunch of fops. Come on out of that shell, boy - it’ll only weigh you down. Anyone gives you lip, I’ll handle them.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>X6 swallowed thickly.</p><p> </p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you’re very reserved, and we’re all just concerned that you might-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, not that. I’ve always been confident, what do you mean <em> ‘feeling more confident now’ </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel patted his arm. “You’re a perfect example of that<em> ‘High Confidence, Low Self-Esteem’ </em> paradox. For someone who thinks the world of himself, you sure as hell don’t treat yourself like it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Clarify.”</p><p><br/>
“Confident people walk like they don’t care what other people think. You do that. People who have low self-esteem are their own worst critic.” He met the courser’s eyes, hidden behind lenses. “They also tend to deny themselves basic rights and self-care. Which you do a lot, worryingly.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 grimaced. “How would you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nick told me about Jacket-geddon. I know you’re self-sufficient, but I start to fret when you lock yourself away.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> fine </em> .”<br/>
<br/>
“But it’d be okay if you weren’t.” A flock of birds sang from the trees. About a mile from Somerville. Faint music and machinery echoed. “You know that, right? If you needed me, I’d be right there.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you feeling okay, sonny?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Nothing to report, Dr. Paris. May I ask why?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The piece you’ve been working on is turning out quite...dark. Moody. Always thought the canvas was the artist’s mirror, and from the looks of it, you have some storm over your head.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m...I’m fine, sir. I’m sorry, I’ll fix it-” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, no, no! You either stain your cheeks, or the canvas. Either way will ease the pain, but if you need to do the former, I’d be right there.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>F*ck.</p><p> </p><p>As much as he wanted to run and hide, the Director’s shoulder was magnetic. Warm, solid, unshakable.</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris was that warm, that solid, that unshakable rock he could lean on for support, that comfort always waiting for him with open arms.</p><p> </p><p>He had fallen into the old man’s homely embrace, willingly. Why couldn’t he with Mr. Boswel? Why couldn’t he get out of the dungeon cell even when the courser wasn’t patrolling?</p><p> </p><p>He knew why. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris’ love got him killed. Mr. Boswel would be no different.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Get out of the cell.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘Get out of the hug.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Two very different instincts. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe if the circumstance were different, he would have followed the first. Instead, X6 shook off the unwanted arm, stepping aside and putting a few feet between the two men.</p><p> </p><p>The walk back to Somerville was silent. </p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>Pyewhacket paced around his feet, flopping to the floor over and over, screaming for his attention. “Thank you again for taking care of her.” X6 said, setting his travel bag at the door. He’d gotten back when Preston was giving her dinner. </p><p> </p><p>“No problem. Easily one of the cutest demons I’ve met.” Preston chucked the tin of cat food into the bin, shutting the fridge door with a bump of his hip. “I think I have a few new scars - little lady doesn’t play around when she’s kneading.” He held up his arm, red lines running all over his hand and wrist.</p><p> </p><p>X6 kneeled, the kitten jumping to his chest and into his arm, having completely forgotten her dinner. Pie rubbed against his cheek, purring like a fusion reactor. She slowly blinked him with her icy blue eyes, squirming in happiness. </p><p> </p><p>God, this little sh*t was going to be the death of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I trust she behaved herself, despite her enthusiasm?” </p><p> </p><p>“When you’re that adorable, you can do no wrong.” Preston picked up his coat, hung over a kitchen chair. “Hey, do you, like, have <em> any </em>hobbies? All you have is books. Do you just stand in here and plan murder or do you have a private life?”</p><p> </p><p>“Pot, kettle.” Preston’s hobbies consisted of sitting in gardens talking to plants, and if he wasn’t depressed, obsessively making mutfruit turnovers. “What’s wrong with reading?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, nothing at all. Just worried you’re gonna run out of material and have a manic breakdown. I’d like to not find you covered in paint and out of your mind like that Pickman dude. If you don’t have a hobby, you go crazy. Don’t end up like that Pickman dude.” Preston rubbed at his neck. “I mean, I guess go for it if painting floats your boat, just don’t...y’know. Use corpses.”</p><p> </p><p>“Noted. Have a good night, Garvey.”</p><p> </p><p>“You too, X. Left you some turnovers I made the other day, in the fridge.”</p><p> </p><p>“You will be spared if I end up like Pickman.”</p><p> </p><p>Preston gave him a two-fingered salute, slipping past him and out the door.</p><p> </p><p>A cat and sweets. Perfect Tuesday night.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>X6 stared in shock at the report he was writing. </p><p> </p><p>He’d been going over the security detail work in Somerville to add to the archives in the Town Hall, when, while aggressively omitting the mushy bits of that little adventure, he’d unknowingly started...doodling.</p><p> </p><p>Left out the part with the emotionally charged talk, looked up at the load of fluff on the window sill, purring and happy with the fresh air coming in, started brooding over the talk, and drew a little portrait of Pyewhacket. </p><p> </p><p>The small sketch of the cat, lazing about in a sunny window, littered the paper that was supposed to be professional. </p><p> </p><p>There was a distinct feeling of satisfaction, chemicals being produced at the method of relieving stress and self-expression. It was like all those years ago, staining his white uniform into this tie-dye-esque disaster of colors, painting complex sceneries and sketching mundane sights from the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>Cr*p, this was the start of something spiraling out of control, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>He wagered he’d end up like Pickman within the next five months. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, I have a little chapter-by-chapter guide on where this is going, which is why there's a confirmed 13 chapters. It's to help me keep on track, see if what I'm writing has a point or is useless filler.<br/>Here's up to chapter 7! It's messy because I just wrote it down quickly, little off-hand notes.<br/>1-Moving out<br/>2-Moving into apartment, first instance of ptsd/anxiety<br/>3-Making friends with Piper, starting bookclub<br/>4-Getting the cat, showing the relationship with x and Jesse, showing a little bit of backstory/past<br/>5-First depressive episode, first bookclub meeting, first time he realizes everyone does care, first outburst/instance of pushing away everyone before they get close. First panic attack<br/>6-Introducing more backstory in Dr. Paris, foreshadowing the Major Point of his past. X6 reflects on Dr. Paris, his relationship with him, his encounter with Nick, where he stands in the companion group, and his friendship with Piper. First instance of him reaching out, and trying to get better. First time painting is brought up.<br/>7-Showing how X6 responds to other people’s depression and trauma, sharing more of his relationship with Jesse. Showing that X6 does care about the others. Conversation with Preston foreshadows chapter 12. More on his relationship with Jesse, viewing him as a father figure like Dr. Paris.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Calm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The roar of the storm is unheard on the horizon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THE B*TCH IS BAAAAAAAAACK~</p><p>Seriously though, hi!!! It's been forever since we left off and it feels SO GOOD to update! I missed this jerk so much. </p><p>This chapter took exceptionally long for how little words there are. It's only 4500 something, but this chapter was so. God. D*mn. Boring. To write. This was needed as a buffer for the final arc, but god did I have to trudge through this. I also had a slight medical issue that kept me from working on this, so thats gonna be my excuse. </p><p>Anyway, we only have 4 chapters left and they are...gonna hurt. </p><p>Enjoy! </p><p>p,s I've been spelling Pie's name wrong. It's 'Pyewacket' not 'Pyewhacket'. Oops.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wrong.</p><p> </p><p>What he was doing, or trying to do, was <em> wrong </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Everything he’d enforced, internalized, repeated day after day like a sinner’s prayer for deliverance he<em> didn’t deserve </em> - thrown aside, shattered against the floor, pieces littering the wood alongside the materials and tools he’d collected earlier that day in a manic surge of desperation. </p><p> </p><p>It was wrong and <em> free </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Wrong, wrong, <em> wrong </em>. </p><p> </p><p>X stood, tense body and trembling hands, quivering in anticipation, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by screaming ghosts and art supplies. Earlier that morning, three AM, barely asleep and hardly awake, something tore through his being, an urge, desire, <em> need </em> . He’d thoughtlessly jumped out of bed, tearing out the door and into the wild of the Commonwealth, hunting something more than the objects, not the brushes or oils or pencils themselves. An incomplete thought, a figurative ideal, the shape of a place in time - past, present, <em> future? </em> - running after not the items, but what they would bring, a result he couldn’t identify. As a courser, proper identification, in people or objects, was mandatory to assu-</p><p> </p><p>He clenched his fists, shaking the tracks and sending the train into the gorge it traveled over. Every time these- <em> why? </em> Why could he never think without going back to the Institute, his place in it? These times always, somehow, lead him back to his…</p><p> </p><p>His <em> previous </em>occupation. X6 wasn’t a courser anymore, he was a Major of the Minutemen. He wasn’t a courser, but the head of Security and Defense. There was no more hunting synths or enemies or technology. He wasn’t working for the Institute anymore. The easel and canvas he stood before seemed to beg for him to drown it in oils and acrylics and ink. </p><p> </p><p>Pyewacket, seemingly unaware of her owner’s breakdown, sniffed and batted at the bag of brushes, knocked over a bottle of gouache paint. She’d grown significantly in the months he had her - not quite the small kitten, more of a teen getting closer to adulthood. Even put on a few more pounds then strictly necessary - making for a painful experience when she jumped on his stomach in the middle of the night. </p><p> </p><p>The cat lost interest in a liner brush and trotted over to the window sill, more interested in the sounds and smells outside, past the window’s webbing. Pie could sit there for hours, unmoving, just as happy when she first perched up on the wood. </p><p> </p><p>A perfect model. </p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>The smooth, unfaltering rush of satisfaction rolled like waves through him as he compared reality to the recreation. Oil-paint had captured Pie’s image in a way he didn’t think gouache or acrylics would, in the way it dried to a soft, blurry effect. It had been about 8 hours since she got up to the window and soon fell asleep. Normally, she would have flitted around the apartment, but it being bedtime - 9:00 PM to 4:00 AM - Pie stayed still in her sleep, dead to the world. </p><p> </p><p>Getting the lighting right once the sun had finally set had been challenging, but X6 was never known for failure. Totally nothing to do with the fact that oil-paint was easy to fix and adjust, due to its slow drying. Nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>His worn Vault Tech t-shirt and fraying jeans were a mess of colors - wiping paint off your hands and onto your clothing rather than a towel or apron will do that - and, for all of his insistence and loyalty to cleanliness and perfection, the chaotic ruination of his clothes made breathing far easier than the courser jacket ever did. </p><p> </p><p><em> ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ </em> A voice hissed into his ear.</p><p> </p><p><em> ‘Go to hell and die,’ </em> He spat back. </p><p> </p><p>His floor had been a casualty, paint spilling and splattering from bottles and brushes. The spots of paint dotting the wood were the only color in the apartment aside from the books, tucked away in shelves neatly, orderly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Wrong.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t the voice that usually growled, always behind him, hands grasping viciously at his shoulders and neck. This voice was <em> quiet, </em> something newly awakened yet older and far more <em> familiar </em>than the hissing phantom.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, his hands were no longer sated, the itchy need for work no longer satisfied by the eight hours spent on painting his cat’s portrait. His hands shook again, fingers twitching, antsy, the way they always did when they needed something to sink into, a task, job, chore, something to do. Stillness, stagnation, the very <em> idea </em> of intermission was foriegn, <em> vile </em> , to him. A being built to work endlessly, <em> tirelessly </em> , could not thrive in a <em> passive </em>environment.</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Paris once told him that idle hands were the devil’s workshop - a proverb he held close, not only for reminiscence, but for the truth that was apposite for him, had been since his creation. </p><p> </p><p>X6-88 was patient. He could wait for hours on end, and not come out of it insane. </p><p> </p><p>What he wasn’t, was leisurely. </p><p> </p><p>The first problem he faced when he moved in, was the lack of work, tasks. He couldn’t unpack because unpacking was all he had - after, stillness. Respite. A break in action. The books, he’d hoped would remedy that for long, something to do, information to absorb and process. He had yet to read all of them, but it didn’t matter -  the very action of reading was far too inert. Sitting, unmoving for hours, biting at his fingers until he bled, so opposed to true stillness he’d rather tear at skin until pain broke him from the static trance. </p><p> </p><p>Books, while enjoyable, were not enough. Not satisfying, no reward in the form of a task complete, the visible proof that he had done something, been productive, acted as a living, breathing force in the world, that he had some power and control over himself and his surroundings. Books? They did not provide that surge of <em> ‘I exist, I exist, I exist’. </em></p><p> </p><p>He’d felt this itch before, a special shock that ran through him. </p><p> </p><p>The first time was after the first time he’d finished a painting under Dr. Paris’ guidance. </p><p> </p><p>It was the burning need to keep going. To paint until his arms went slack and he could no longer see his skin, covered in layers of oil and ink. </p><p> </p><p>The only problem was his lack of inspiration upon the completion of  Pie’s portrait. </p><p> </p><p>A portrait cannot be done without a subject to draw from and recreate. Perhaps a human, with the unrestricted mind, gifted with imagination and self-creation of ideas, could see to their own, intangible subject, take ideas from the blackness of eyes closed in concentration to white canvas. </p><p> </p><p>He was not human. </p><p> </p><p>A machine, he could accurately recreate the subject in front of him, with stunning attention to detail in ways that a human could only achieve through cybernetic upgrades. His hands, wrists, arms, vision - mechanical is accurate, precise.  </p><p> </p><p><em> ‘How, then, have you painted from your mind before?’ </em>The new old voice pondered, answer so bitter and obvious, truth ignored to protect his sanity and stability of his world. </p><p> </p><p>This voice was, frighteningly, welcome. </p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>“I think we’re nearing the end of Jacob’s arc...which means we’ll have to put up with Chandler until the end of this godforsaken waste of paper.” Piper gagged at the banker’s name, the character so vile to her that she ceased her attack on a generous slice of mutfruit pie. </p><p> </p><p>X hummed around his assault on the baked good. He didn’t know if it was because Curie’s original program was for a maid bot or what, but she had to be the best baker in Sanctuary. No, scratch that, the<em> entire wasteland. </em> It was such a commercial pie; so elegant and perfect that some sleazy corporation would have used it for an advertisement. Probably Slocum’s Joe. </p><p> </p><p>The other Pie - the one with at <em> least </em>ten pounds worth of fur and a penchant for screaming to get what she wanted - sat on his knee, tail twitching and eyes the size of dinner plates as she kept trying to sneak crust crumbs with her thieving hands. </p><p> </p><p>“Have we decided how we feel about Chandler yet? I have not seen enough of him to form an opinion.” Curie asked thoughtfully as she took a sip of carrot-flower tea. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m certain he’ll be the safest romantic option, in terms of personal and emotional safety, but if everything ends the way I think it will, Juniper will forgo him because his relative safety; why would she fall for Jacob’s maverick persona, only to fall for the exact opposite trait in Chandler?” X6 said, trying to block a kitty hell-bent on crust from jumping onto his plate. The little sh*t was evasive, dodging the hand-wall almost quicker than it could maneuver to keep her at bay. He silently accepted that the night wouldn’t likely end without Pie getting into her nickname-sake. </p><p> </p><p>Piper nodded and gave a thumbs up, her sound of agreement muffled by the forkful of dark purple filling. She held a finger up, washed down the sugary mutfruit with a glass of wine and coughed to clear the throat. “I-” The reporter hiccuped, startling the cat long enough for him to fortify his defenses, “Whoops, <em> uh- </em> I second that take!” She giggled, slightly tipsy but not quite past the line. Still, he reminded himself of where the spare, empty bucket was in the bathroom. Piper was known for being a sick drunk. Especially when wine was involved. </p><p> </p><p>Curie glanced at the reporter with a raised brow. “Piper, do you think that, perhaps, you’ve had quite enough to drink? I know that you live down the hall, but even so, alcohol is not good for anyone in numerous amounts.” The doctor asked gently, hands clasped in her lap. </p><p> </p><p>Piper scoffed. “If you think I’m bad now, you should see me after eleven glasses.” She said dryly. “Seriously, though, I’ve only had two glasses before this one, and I’m not a lightweight. Don’t worry a hair on your head about Ol’ Piper.”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor was clearly unconvinced, face taking the expression usually saved for Hancock with his chems or X6-88 himself with his sugar diet. She turned to said synth, “X6, would you care to tell Miss Piper about the dangers of alcohol and inebriation, or shall I?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid I’m have no room to talk, now that I’ve tried it myself.” X hummed, gesturing lazily with his fork. Pie had given up on her quest for crumbs, and settled down in the space between his crossed legs, purring contently. </p><p> </p><p>The two women froze as if they had just been shot. </p><p> </p><p>They both turned towards him slowly, Piper’s face one of disbelief, Curie’s of horror. </p><p> </p><p>“...You...you serious right now…?” Piper probed, leaning forward as if the distance between them had anything to do with what he said. <em> “You </em> had <em> alcohol?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Monsieur X6, if there is anything you need to cope with, alcohol is <em> not- </em>” Curie started, worry evident on her brow, but was interrupted by X waving them off. </p><p> </p><p>“I had <em> one beer </em> with Preston a few weeks ago. I’m <em> not </em> an alcoholic, I’m not <em> coping </em> with anything, I don’t intend to make it a <em> habit </em>. He offered, and I accepted as a peace offering.” He cooly, if not a bit irritatedly, explained.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor deflated, and breathed a sigh of relief - something he found particularly interesting, and made a mental note of it. Piper, however, pressed further. </p><p> </p><p>“So, you just...had a beer - which you hate the smell of, I went with you to Beantown, I <em> remember you complaining </em> - with... <em> Preston </em>, who you’re not really more than civil with.”</p><p> </p><p>Her tone wasn’t accusatory, so he didn't feel the need to be defensive. However, it was...<em> inquisitive </em> in a way that made him answer carefully. “Yes. Again, I took it as a peace offering because I wanted him to watch Pyewacket.” X6 said with a level of flatness usually reserved for annoying scientists who didn’t comprehend ‘The thing <em> was not there, </em> so we didn’t bring it back’, but <em> without </em>the malice and urge to smack something. </p><p> </p><p>Again, both women paused. </p><p> </p><p>What the hell was going on?</p><p> </p><p>“You- hang on, wait a second, hold up-” Piper stood to her feet, pacing around the room with her hands in her hair. She turned to him, surprise and disbelief painting her face. “First, you drink beer with him, then you trust him in <em> your apartment </em> with <em> your cat’s life?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Okay, what is your problem right now? Why is this so hard to believe?” He asked, looking back and forth between the two women, hoping for some answers in expression or body language. Alas, none came. </p><p> </p><p>“X.” Curie stood as well, hands clasped over her heart the way they did when she was proud. “You trusted someone you were not very close with. With someone as private as you are, trusting someone to enter your home and keep your pet safe is <em> quite </em>the milestone!” She beamed, smile brighter than the lightbulb hanging above her. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s Preston. Was I supposed to assume he’d set the place on fire with Pie inside?” He snarked, mostly to derail the conversation from his vulnerability. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,<em> yeah! </em> That’s what you <em> always </em> do!” Piper exclaimed, hands gesturing and emphasizing wildly. “You don’t even trust <em> me </em>to watch Pie!”</p><p> </p><p>“If you can’t make pancakes, you can’t cat-sit.” </p><p><br/>The reporter reeled, mocking being emotionally gutted. “Oh, you <em> wound </em> me. But no, seriously,” She straightened, taking back her seat atop the coffee table. “That’s actually <em> huge </em> for you and I’m <em> really </em> proud of you and I know you don’t like <em> mushy sh*t </em> and this is the perfect time to change the subject, <em> so! </em>Did anyone else puke at the sex scene in chapter nine?” Piper rambled, taking a large breathe of air afterward. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, absolutely. Well, not quite <em> regurgitation </em> , but I gagged on my lunch. The descriptions of the encounter were just so <em> vile </em>.” Curie shuddered, settling back into her chair and returning to her pie, forgotten a while ago. </p><p> </p><p>X made another mental note to give Piper more sour gum - as a thank-you for derailing the conversation - and quirked a brow. “There was an erotic scene? I didn’t catch it. I started skipping pages the moment Juniper wouldn’t shut up about her clothing.” Piper had told him that over-description of appearance was common in this category of literature, but he found it hard to believe; how did they make it through publishing? Who let this cr*p slide? </p><p> </p><p>The reporter whistled. “God, I wish I was you. It was horrible - they did it in a bathroom stall at Juniper’s mom’s funeral service.”</p><p> </p><p>Wait, what?</p><p> </p><p>“Juni-<em> she died?!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Apparently!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Wha- Curie!?” X looked to the doctor, hoping for answers yet again that night. </p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. “I do not skim, and I did not see anything to suggest that she had died in a previous chapter, or the cause of her passing. It appears she just...how does Robert put it?” She tapped at her chin, eyes up at the ceiling. “...Dropped like a bag of hammers. Yes, that is the colloquialism.” </p><p> </p><p>X pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Of course. My mistake for expecting any of this to make sense.” He sighed, stabbing his fork ruefully into a chunk of mutfruit. “So, what happened at the funeral that I - thankfully - missed?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing worth anyone’s time, but if I have to sleep with the images burned into my skull, so do you.” Piper adamantly said. She plucked her copy from beside her, nearly knocking over her glass of wine, and flipped the pages until they landed on the scene. The reporter cleared her throat. "'His hands ran across my opening. He gasped. "You're a virgin?" He smirked. In the fluorescent bathroom light, I shivered.'"</p><p> </p><p>X shuddered as the sting of stomach acid crept up his throat. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that anatomically impossible?"</p><p> </p><p>"What, the fact that <em> both </em> hands are playing her lady-bits like a <em> flute </em>, or the misconception that virgin women feel different from not-virgin women?" </p><p> </p><p>The security chief cringed, curling in on himself like a threatened crab. Pie beeped indignantly, dragging her fat fluffy body along with her owner's self-defense mechanisms against mortal sin to reclaim a spot on his lap. "Oh, <em> God </em>. Why do you say these things? In my home? In front of my cat?"</p><p> </p><p>"Pie should know what a pus-"</p><p> </p><p><em> "No! </em> Don't you <em> dare </em> even <em> go </em> there!" X6 exclaimed, rushing to cover Pyewacket's ears. </p><p> </p><p>Poor Curie just sat there, hands clasped over her mouth and eyes wide brows furrowed at Piper's crass language. </p><p> </p><p>The reporter cackled like the devil-woman she was, head thrown back and arms hugging her stomach. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm going to have to get a swear jar, aren't I? But instead of swears, it's for everytime you say something utterly indecent."</p><p> </p><p>"I was going to suggest gold star stickers, but I believe that would also be efficient."</p><p> </p><p>Piper wiped a tear from her eyelash, maniacal laughter calmed to uneven giggles. "Hey, if all I have to do to traumatize you is pay you before-hand, I'll just start doing more Minutemen jobs." She took a swig from her glass, emptying it of the maroon liquid. "Hey, you got a bathroom in here?"</p><p> </p><p>X6 pointed at the door to the left in the tiny hallway, just across from his room. </p><p> </p><p>Piper winked at him, waggling a pair of finger guns. </p><p> </p><p>"Just don't p*ss all over my toilet." He asked dryly of her as she sauntered away.</p><p> </p><p>"Not <em> that </em> drunk, d*ckhead!" She called good-naturedly as she tucked behind the door.</p><p> </p><p>He rolled his eyes, sinking back into his chair and scratching around the shoulders of the kitten in his lap. Curie smiled, giggling softly at the strange dynamic he and the reporter had.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor cleared her throat, crossing her legs in her chair and taking a sip of her tea. "So, how have you been, X6? I have not heard from you in quite some time. Monsieur Boswel took you with him deal with Deathclaws in Somerville, yes? I hope all went well?"</p><p> </p><p>X's jaw tightened, remembering the conversation the two men had. It had been playing over and over in his head. "It went a**-upward. We were tracking a Deathclaw, and were attacked by Gunners from one side, Mutants from another, Raiders from the other, and the nest of Deathclaws in front of us."</p><p> </p><p>Curie's mouth became a small 'o'. "Goodness! How did you get out of that?"</p><p> </p><p>"I have a theory that Mr. Boswel is protected by a veil of BS luck."</p><p> </p><p>She chuckled. "Well, there is certainly plenty of evidence to support this claim. I overheard Father Hardy say that his faith is what keeps him alive and well, and what gives him such success. I don’t believe in such things, but it is one answer." The doctor paused, smile lessening slightly. "On that note, I...do have something I have been meaning to ask you, if it is alright."</p><p> </p><p>X raised his brow. "Shoot."</p><p> </p><p>"How do you feel about Jesse?"</p><p> </p><p>It was a loaded question.</p><p> </p><p>He took a moment, weighing the factors.</p><p> </p><p>His relationship with Mr. Boswel was easy to mistake for one of contempt, and obligatory respect rather than actual admiration. Most other synths from the Institute didn't believe him when he said he idolized the man, so Curie could simply have been asking if he actually liked Mr. Boswel.</p><p> </p><p>But the more likely connotation of her question was asking about his relationship and opinion of him.</p><p> </p><p>He thought highly of the Director, don't misunderstand. Mr. Boswel was quick-witted, highly intelligent, and managed to balance his reckless compassion with efficiency and tact. </p><p> </p><p>But their <em> relationship </em>was a little more complicated.</p><p> </p><p>The security chief enjoyed the man's company. <em> There, </em> he admitted it. X6-88 liked being around his new boss.</p><p> </p><p>The only problem was that his new boss wasn't content with <em> just </em> being <em> his boss. </em></p><p> </p><p>See, Mr. Jesse Boswel had a unique quirk; everyone younger than him and close to him was adopted as one of his own. In the group, the only ones not an adopted son or daughter were Deacon, Danse, and Nick. Everyone else, the Director insisted on making himself a father figure to.</p><p> </p><p>Including X.</p><p> </p><p>"What do you mean by that?"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, it is just some silly rumors I hear while working in the Institute. Things that make it out to seem like you are going to <em> kill </em>him? I know they are silly, but I had to check."</p><p> </p><p>What the<em> hell? </em></p><p> </p><p>X sat up straighter. "Wait, someone thinks I'm trying to <em> assassinate </em> the Director? Who told you this?"</p><p> </p><p>Curie glanced nervously around the room, fiddling with her sleeves. "I did not catch her name, but she was an assistant in Advanced Science."</p><p> </p><p>His brow furrowed. Never, had he <em> ever </em>, spoken ill or of harming the Director. Why the f*ck would some random assistant spread rumors about him? Clearly the Institute's scientists had gotten bored with their work. Rumors could spread like a virus when humans were not occupied. </p><p> </p><p>Piper reentered the room.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, X, where'dja get that painting of Pie?" She asked, pointing her thumb at the bathroom door over her shoulder. "Looks amazing. How did you find an actual artist out here?"</p><p> </p><p>Whoops, there went some unneeded bloodflow straight to his cheeks. “It’s, uh...It’s actually mine.” He fumbled sheepishly, trying to be nonchalant without sounding like an a**. </p><p> </p><p>Piper's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Holy sh*t, really? That's insane, since when do you paint?"</p><p> </p><p>"Painting?" Curie asked, tilting her head. </p><p> </p><p>"Check out the bathroom." The reporter gestured down the hall. Curie hopped from her chair, side-stepping around Piper. "Seriously, I didn't know you liked painting. How'd you, of all people, pick that up?"</p><p> </p><p>Something sharp prodded at his heart, ache for someone long gone, shame that he ached in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>"It's just something I've picked up recently." X6 said, voice stiff like an anchor thrown from a ship, trying to find purchase, somewhere to settle. He loosely crossed his arms over his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Curie's sharp gasp was quiet from the bathroom, and she bounded back out into the living room. "Well, clearly you should have picked up this sooner; that painting is remarkable! You taught yourself this?"</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't take his eyes away from the floor as he shook his head, feeling heat flood his cheeks. To his knowledge, his skin tone was too deep for any blush to be noticable, thank god. </p><p> </p><p>"How long did that take you?" Piper asked as she reclaimed her spot on the coffee table. Curie followed suit, scooping up a Pie rubbing at her ankles and nestling into the black armchair. </p><p> </p><p>"Eight hours or so."</p><p> </p><p>The reporter hummed dryly as she picked at the crust of her slice of pie. “Huh. Maybe now you won’t be constantly scrambling for somethin’ to do, now that you’ve picked up <em> one of the most time consuming hobbies in the world.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Art will be good for you! It is a very therapeutic form of self-expression, I’m sure it will perform <em> wonders </em>for your mood.” Curie chirped, cradling Pyewacket to her chest and making kissy faces at her. The cat beeped sweetly, pawing at the doctor’s nose and low-dangling rat earrings. </p><p> </p><p>Which were totally <em> hideous </em> , by the way. Not that he’d say anything to suggest as much. They were just little silver rats. She had much better pairs, why would she ever wear accessories based on vermin? Curie had said that she respected rats and mice for their ‘contributions to science’, which, <em> fair </em>, but they were still disgusting. </p><p> </p><p>He silently hated the fact that she made them work. How the f*ck do you make <em> rat art </em> work?</p><p> </p><p>“How do you think Blue’s gonna take this?” Piper teased as she stabbed her fork into a chunk of buttery crust and gooey mutfruit filling, a dash of knowingness on her voice. Mr. Boswel was consistent in his fatherly treatment to <em> everyone </em> - god knew Piper had her own conversations with the man, regarding her life choices and insecurities and all those things X loathed to think about.</p><p> </p><p>Curie giggled at his obvious dreading of an emotionally charged interaction that was bound to happen. "He would be so happy to see you partake in an activity used for self-expression." </p><p> </p><p>"Ugh. Could neither of you mention it? I'd like a week or so of peace without him getting soft." </p><p> </p><p>"Sure. Consider my lips sealed!" Piper made a zipping motion across her lips.</p><p> </p><p>"Mine as well. Though, I do not think it will take long for him to find out. He is good at knowing things." Curie sighed, no doubt remembering all the times the Director noticed her struggles in her new body.</p><p> </p><p>Ugh, she was right. Knowing X6's luck, God himself would appear to his worshipper and say, "X6 is painting," and Boswel would be at his doorstep at four in the morning to see his work. </p><p> </p><p>He could see it now - Mr. Boswel's eyes flickering, the corners wrinkling as he smiled, his voice getting that weird <em> shine </em> to it. <em> Ugh. </em> The one that made him sound soft as cotton and sweet as honey and made X6 sick to his godd*mn stomach.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> swore, </em> he actually liked Mr. Boswel. It was just...how could someone be that in tune and <em> concerned </em> with other people's emotions, and <em> not </em>go insane?</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, I wouldn't stew over it. He can smell trepidation of mushy-ness. The less you care, the less he will." Piper drawled, leaning back as she filled her glass up to the brim with wine, taking a swig from the bottle for good measure. The two synths winced. </p><p> </p><p>Curie eyed Piper's glass with what could only be described as raw, steadfast, <em> rapidly increasing concern. </em> "Ignoring <em> that </em> for the moment," She pointed a manicured nail at the scene, "Piper makes a very good point. You cannot spend your days worrying about having to talk about yourself - with someone you <em> admire, </em> no less. Jesse means well, you know that. He is not some <em> emotion demon </em> sent from Hell to haunt you." </p><p> </p><p>D*mn it, he hated when Curie was right when it came to feel-y stuff. </p><p> </p><p>"Now, as for <em> you," </em> Curie swiveled around in her chair, turning to Piper and jabbing a finger in the reporter's direction. "I cannot <em> believe </em>that you just did that in front of me, thinking I do not have a two-hundred page essay on the negative long-term effects of alcohol in my bag at any given time."</p><p> </p><p>Piper raised an eyebrow over her ridiculously-full glass. "Do you?"</p><p> </p><p>Curie swiveled again, violently, and leaned over the armchair's arm to rummage through her canvas bag. She pulled an even-more-ridiculously-full binder from it, shaking it threateningly in the air like an angry mob would a pitchfork. </p><p> </p><p>Piper took a sip from her glass, slowly, maintaining eye-contact with the now irate doctor.</p><p> </p><p>Said doctor's eye twitched.</p><p> </p><p>God, he loved bookclub. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the guideline, to summarize this chapter:</p><p>8: A shorter chapter, where X6 is mostly painting and taking up art again. Curie and Piper could come over for book club while he paints/draws. Fun weekend hangout, wine-and-cheese, gossip night. Feel-good chapter. Things start looking up. </p><p>Obviously, things didn't quite go the way I thought it might. Up until 7, the guideline was what I'd already done, while 8 and onward is more of a suggestion. But you can get the main idea, even if it doesn't go exactly as planned.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A meeting in the Institute almost goes wrong.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tbh, I finished the first draft of this right after uploading the last chapter. This one went through some major revisions, but came really easily. </p><p>This is actually way more important to the story than I thought it would be - I originally planned for Dr. Quay to be a really stuck up b*tch. But when I rewrote that section and made her Paris' daughter, it actually made me go back to the guideline and revise the final chapters. We're still going in the same direction, but with a different approach. It even stretched out the amount of chapters - we went from 13 to 14. So, you guys are gonna get some extra content. </p><p>Just a heads up, don't get too attached to Quay.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>An endless bubble of plasticy-white. Tall, blue-green windows. Leafy flora dotted around to break up the monotony of colorlessness. Beeps and whirs from machinery and mechanisms hidden behind those white wall panels. Blinking lights and flashing signs from consoles. Creaks and quiet hisses from elevators and electronic doors. Asymmetrical clothing, in white and white with some color, darting along.</p><p> </p><p>But the strangest thing?</p><p> </p><p>It was somehow <em> quiet.  </em></p><p> </p><p>There was a layer, hidden beneath the noise and movement, of still silence, like a shark beneath the waves, a snake amidst the foliage, a knife behind your back. Not the silence or stillness like if it was empty, if all the machines were turned off, but a strange eeriness. A sickly, uncanny, unnaturalness to the world of white around him. </p><p> </p><p>X6 shook his head, stretched his shoulders, flexed the bones in his fingers, trying to urge the feeling of unease out of his body. This was home, above all other places. This was the Institute. He’d lived there for ten years, seen the walls and lights and heard the beeps and creaks for a decade. How did it seem so...<em> alien? </em> He hadn’t been gone <em> that </em> long, right? It had been months since he last came down there, nearly a year. But that couldn’t have been enough time for him to become de-familiarized to cleanliness and order. <em> Surely </em> he hadn’t grown so accustomed to the filth and rot and rust of the wasteland, that the pure spotlessness of the Institute was now <em> strange.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Idly, he wondered when - or <em> if </em>- he would have come back next if Mr. Boswel hadn’t offered him to join the meeting.</p><p> </p><p>Some low-level scientist in Advanced Systems had asked for the Director’s audience, in regards to recent issues and updates on various projects. X hadn’t been too informed, but he supposed that was due to Mr. Boswel not knowing much himself.</p><p> </p><p>The said man was speaking quietly, in hushed tones, with Deacon, as they maneuvered through the rushing crowd that was the ever-busy Institute. Preston stood at his other side, hands clasped tightly behind his back, over his musket. The Minuteman never did like it down there; he said it was sinister, like a too-big smile from a too-welcoming settlement. </p><p><br/>Deacon’s presence was what worried X6 more. The Railroad had all but refused to be down in the Institute for an extended period of time; Denise had been brought down for a tour by Mr. Boswel, only to leave after twenty minutes. The Railroad was ever paranoid, waiting for the ball to drop and the Institute to break their carefully crafted truce. If an RR agent was seen in the organization, it was because something, or <em> someone, </em>was threatening the livelihood or new-found freedom of the synths. </p><p> </p><p>The spy being at Mr. Boswel’s side, whispering with a scowl daring to appear on his face, did not make promises of<em> peace.  </em></p><p> </p><p>X6 bitterly remembered the last time the Railroad had to make an appearance inside the white walls. </p><p> </p><p>Someone in Synth Retention - now defunct and in the middle of being reformed into Synth <em> Aegis </em> - had gone rogue and against orders from Director Boswel. Synth recall codes were used, taken before the holotapes and the information in them could be destroyed. The woman had wiped nearly thirty synths before being caught. She probably would have gotten more, if she hadn’t been harried. Taken her time, she could have wiped <em> hundreds.  </em></p><p><em><br/></em>Sometimes he wished he’d gotten himself wiped. The reclamation chair scared the hell out of him, though, so he always assumed it was just because he couldn’t be. It’s easier to want something you can never have.</p><p> </p><p>He mentioned that it made him uneasy. Mr. Boswel went and personally ripped the chair out from the floor, took it to the central space, and beat it to scrap metal with a super-sledge.</p><p> </p><p>X had to admit, there was something satisfying about seeing the angry scientists be too afraid of their new leader to stop him. It was something he liked about Mr. Boswel - he had friends, and enemies. No in between. If you got in his way and tried to keep him doing what he needed to, you would get ran the f*ck over. </p><p> </p><p>Only problem was that he made friends out of people who should have been enemies. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, it always played out to his favor. He allied with the Brotherhood, and in return, he had a powerful military ally and his...boyfriend? Were Mr. Boswel and Danse too old to be boyfriends? He never understood the terminology. Point is, he should have blown that blimp into hell, but he didn’t. He let Maxson play King Arthur, and it ended up being beneficial. X6 would have just shot the man on sight. </p><p> </p><p>He <em> hated </em> to admit it, but <em> maybe </em> , just <em> maybe </em>, there was something to Mr. Boswel’s amicable philosophies. Maybe being warm yielded more and better results than coldness, sometimes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Every single person down here is a genius. What makes one special in this glorified mop bucket is being kind.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Every day, he wished that Dr. Paris and Mr. Boswel could have met. </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>It was twenty minutes past the agreed time. Whoever they were supposed to meet was late. X6 had sat in a too-white room, for twenty minutes too long. While he stewed over the tardiness, Mr. Boswel talked softly with Preston, about something that appeared to worry the junior man. He really couldn’t be a**ed to pay attention, because Deacon. F*cking. Deacon. </p><p><em><br/></em> <em> Would. Not. Stop. Trying. To. Talk. To. Him.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“So, what happened to the trench coat again? All I heard was that Cait was in the kitchen without sober supervision. Been wrackin’ my brain trying to think of a new code-name for you.” Deacon rubbed his chin, leaning forward in deep thought. “Maybe...we could <em> match? </em> We both have sunglasses...how about...Sunglasses Number Two? Sunglass Bro? Sunglass-hole?”</p><p> </p><p>X6-88 swore his teeth would be ground into a fine dust before the scientist arrived at the meeting <em> she f*cking asked for, who’s late to their own godd*mn meeting? </em></p><p> </p><p>“Someone used it to try to extinguish a kitchen fire.” He said through gritted teeth and tightened jaw. His arms nearly hurt from how hard he was crossing them over his chest, like he could choke himself out and avoid this unwanted interaction. </p><p> </p><p>Deacon whistled. “Oh, yikes. I thought those things were fire-proof?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Clearly not.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Huh. Anyway, do you know anything about this scientist, other than ‘chronically late’? I’d like to know who I was <em> supposed </em>to be dealing with today.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. I haven’t been here in months.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. In that case,” Deacon leaned back in his chair, “Hey, Whisper! What do we know about this science lady?” He called down to the other end of the table. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel perked up from the huddle he and the Colonel had. “Her name’s Dr. Quay and she’s a low-level scientist in AS. Curie has worked with her. Other than that, all I can gather is she’s never seen a clock before.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon sighed and nodded, a bitter smile of tired acceptance on his mostly-plastic face. </p><p> </p><p>Well, that wasn’t really true anymore. He stopped his face changes a long, long time ago. Even stopped with the wig, let his hair grow out into a shaggy mess. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel had that effect on people. He was like a living bandage, a man of disinfectant and gauze that fixed whatever broken bone or bruise or open wound he was shown. </p><p> </p><p>It was tempting. </p><p> </p><p>He had watched every single one of them somehow fix themselves after seeking his guidance, his help. Cait went from a suicidal junkie to a glowing, confidant young woman who was the best brawler in the Commonwealth. Danse was a cog in the Brotherhood’s machine, pretending he was happy to be an expendable soldier to be thrown away. Now, he had his first boyfriend, a step-son, and a home of his own that actually accepted him. Preston had watched his world burn to the ground, only to be the second in command to the Commonwealth’s strongest, most terrifyingly efficient army. </p><p> </p><p>He watched Boswel fix <em> every single problem </em> of <em> every single person </em>he’d ever met. </p><p> </p><p>How could he <em> not </em> be tempted to go to him? How could he be happy hiding away when it felt like all of his problems would just <em> vanish </em>if he talked to him? How could he just let himself hurt when Mr. Boswel could fix him?</p><p> </p><p>He knew why. The answer was another question; <em> what if he couldn’t? </em></p><p> </p><p>What if X6 couldn’t be fixed? What if there was no healing, no getting better, no greener grass for him? What if he couldn’t be saved?</p><p> </p><p>He’d rather not take the chance. He’d rather writhe and deteriorate in misery before asking for help, only to be rejected, to be told there was no point. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘But if you hide away in fear of rejection, you will never hear acceptance.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Shut up, </em> comforting voice he hadn’t heard in years and was only now hearing because things <em> hurt </em> and he needed <em> someone </em>. </p><p> </p><p>From the hall outside, the echo of a sharp clicking caught on X6’s ear in the midst of his downward spiral that he’d continue in bed after sundown.<em> Click, click, click, click. </em> One after the other, getting closer and closer.</p><p> </p><p>Hallelujah, the door opened and a warm-skinned, dark-haired woman in a labcoat and heels strode into the room. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel smiled politely, jumping to his feet to greet her. “Good morning! You must be Dr. Quay?” He extended an arm for a handshake, leaning down slightly so as to not tower over her. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay considered him for a moment, studying him as she accepted the handshake. X assumed she was eyeing the burn scars - everyone did, at first meeting. “Correct. And you must be the new Director Boswel. I have little to discuss, so we should get through this quickly. Oh, and my apologies for my lateness. An engine seemed likely to explode on us, and they needed an extra hand stabilizing it.” She explained, completely cool and relaxed in the midst of her ultimate superior, like she<em> hadn’t </em>kept him waiting for an egregious amount of time. X6 stiffened, wary of her disregard for authority.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe that was just the fact that he swore he knew her. Where had they met? Maybe they’d just passed each other.</p><p> </p><p>“No issue. Please, go on.” Mr. Boswel gestured to the table, inelegantly dropping back into his seat, crossing his legs, and leaning back. God, Father would be having an aneurysm.</p><p> </p><p>She dropped a manilla envelope on the table, swiftly - and <em>gracefully,</em> <em>Mr. Boswel, </em>take note - taking a chair at the head of it. </p><p> </p><p>“The synths that graduated the engineering and practical science courses have proven difficult to work with. The humans in Advanced Systems are still against the idea of free synths, and the synths, in turn, refuse to work with anyone who routinely shows blatant prejudice. This resulted in a confrontation that turned volatile just last week, ending with a damaged Gen.2 and an assistant in the medical bay.” Dr. Quay quickly recounted, icy look of professional indifference upon her face. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel raised one brow. “Really? Well, I can see why this was urgent. However, I’m concerned over the fact that this is the first time I’m hearing about this. I was down here the other day and no one mentioned any brawl.”</p><p> </p><p>Her lips set in a firm line. “Ah. I’d assume that’s due to us being used to our Director being down here more often. Father never left, so word got him quickly. I’ll make note to remind everyone that you’re harder to reach in terms of updates. Anyway, moving on,” She pulled a paper from the folder. X6 noticed a bright shine from her left hand -  a steel wedding ring, in the shape of DNA. Oh, maybe that's how he knew her - he'd done work for a Dr. Marisol Quay in Bioscience. Maybe he'd passed by her wife. “Bioscience and Advanced Systems are currently at odds with Curie. Few humans want to work with her, much less take orders from her. Most humans in both divisions are asking for her to be moved, or to be exclusively in charge of the synths in said divisions. However, the sensible of us understand that such actions would only create more conflict, so we’re asking you to come up with something else.”</p><p> </p><p>Preston blinked, eyeing Dr. Quay with an irked disbelief. “At odds with <em> Curie </em>.” He echoed, incredulous. “Do we know the same Curie? Pretty sure the only odd someone could have with her is one they make themselves.”</p><p> </p><p>“Curie has been reported regarding her behavior multiple times. I personally don’t believe that she is at fault, but most of the scientists and heads of divisions find her to be…” Dr. Quay waved her hand in the air, chewing on her lip and ruining her berry-tinted lipstick. “Bossy? She’s very peculier with the work we do. A recent incident where tensions flared was the other day, when we in Advanced Systems were trying to install more experimental grow beds. Curie insisted that something was wrong with a bed and asked us to give it a once-over to ensure it would work properly. She was right, there was a watering pipe that would have snapped if connected to the water system and exploded the bed. But, regardless if she’s right or not, most of the humans in Bioscience and Advanced Systems don’t like taking orders from a synth.” </p><p> </p><p>There was something about her. X6 had to have run an op for her at some point. </p><p> </p><p>“That sounds like a personal problem, not mine or Curie’s.” Mr. Boswel said plainly. “If Curie says something is wrong, you d*mn well better listen to her. She knows what she’s doing and how to do it right.”</p><p> </p><p>“I agree. She’s clearly gifted in a human sense of the word. Most of them just can’t handle not being in control. However, Curie doesn’t seem to understand that all of us have lived our lives knowing synths as <em> laborers </em>- living and breathing Mister Handy’s. I don’t believe that it’s Curie’s fault, but it is nonetheless an occurring problem we face that needs your attention. Now, as for the next issue,” She slid the paper down the table to Mr. Boswel, reaching for another from the folder. “We have some potential progress regarding the produce cloning projects.”</p><p> </p><p>“And?” The Director half-mindedly urged her to continue, skimming over the reports of Curie’s <em> ‘behavior’ </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay hesitated, clearing her throat. “We believe that there is previously existing research of them. Here, in the Institute. For replicating them.” She stammered, voice thick and suddenly uneven. “If we get it, we could use to to replicate and bio-engineer even more produce, maybe even <em> livestock </em>. It would be a game-changer, but…”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel looked up over the paper, considering the young woman. “...You alright?” </p><p> </p><p>“Y-yes, my apologies. Uh, the research is in a...<em> difficult spot. </em>Making it questionable to retrieve it.”</p><p> </p><p>Uneven breath, nervous tics, awkward speech - why was she shy, out of the blue? And why did it make her even more familiar? Where the f*ck did X6 see her before? The Institute was tight-knit, but it was hardly ‘everyone knows everyone’. You might hear of someone’s names, but it wasn’t so small that there weren’t strangers. He grimaced, the gears in his head steaming from the overtime as he tried to put a name to her face.</p><p> </p><p>“So what’s the problem? Is it in some abandoned section, or what?” Deacon piped up, having watched the conversation with a tense air. The Railroad had been against synths remaining at the Institute for the exact reasons Quay mentioned - they should have anticipated violence. They did, but Mr. Boswel refused to <em> forcefully </em> move synths to the topside to be placed under RR custody and protection, much to Desiree’s chagrin. Deacon had been more understanding, but X6 could imagine that he was frustrated at the lack of supervision. Angry humans and happy synths were <em> not </em>destined for peace.</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay’s throat trembled. “The research was a pet-project of my father, Dr. Walter Paris. He was the head of Bioscience, before Dr. Holdren.”</p><p> </p><p>The world turned to ice. Frozen, and impossibly cold and unforgiving. </p><p> </p><p>So. That’s how X6 knew her - where that face came from, what the name that came with it was.</p><p> </p><p>His throat tightened, eyes went wide and he was grateful for his sunglasses.</p><p> </p><p>Linnea. Linnea Paris. He’d seen her the few times Ms. Marley Wicker, Dr. Paris’ old flame, had let him near. She hated synths, hated her ex-husband’s respect for them and the man himself, and as such, Linnea was never allowed near either of them. The few times they’d been in the same room, she was a shy, stammering girl, barely able to meet anyone’s eye. </p><p> </p><p>F*ck, the last time he saw her was at the funeral. She’d been fifteen, hiding behind her mother. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, dawning horror poured into him, rushed across his body via veins, as the sharp sting of cruel claws trailed lightly up his spine, lingering at the space between his shoulder blades, before wrapping, almost <em> lovingly, </em> around his throat. They dug in.</p><p> </p><p>“When he died, we managed to argue for a proper burial, rather the normal cremation. His grave is in the catacombs, and the research is...in his tomb. Someone would have to go...get it.” She wiped under her eye. “I’m sorry, my father is a sore spot.” </p><p> </p><p>He distantly remembered the funeral. A fog had surrounded him, turned everything into nothingness, naught but naught. But he remembered Linnea. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered that, for all her softness, her easy-coming tears-</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t cried. </p><p> </p><p>He looked over at her, standing under her mother’s arm, blank faced and empty eyed. </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t get to know her father. Her mother would hardly allow them to pass in the halls.</p><p> </p><p>She had to have begged to be at the funeral. Mrs. Wicker was a spiteful woman. </p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t cried. Neither did he. They both just stared at the coffin, still and silent. </p><p> </p><p>They were the last to leave. They didn’t look at or speak to each other. </p><p> </p><p>“No harm, take your time. We don’t need the research, we can learn on our own. If you don’t want him disturbed, no one’s going to.”</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay, <em> Linnea, </em> smiled softly. “No. No, he’d want someone to carry on his work. He’d want it finished. It’s just…” She sucked in a breath. “I’m the last of my family bloodline. If someone would get the research...I’d have to. I didn’t see him much, but...I’m not sure I’d have the stomach to open up his grave and dig around his body for papers.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 couldn’t breath. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Look what you’ve done to this girl.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That awful hissing voice reverberated in his head. A drumbeat, a siren, a gunshot - loud, echoing, unescapable. </p><p> </p><p>“Would there be a chance that he kept his research stored elsewhere? Maybe a holotape or USB? Copies of it?” Mr. Boswel pried, leaning towards her to speak gently and softly. Doing his best to tip-toe around her tears, keep the dam from bursting further.</p><p> </p><p>Preston raised his hand, shy and awkward. He was never good with crying people. It was the only time he was socially inept. “Did he have any co-workers that he was close to that could get it for you?” He suggested, wincing at the crying woman.</p><p> </p><p>His discomfort could not have possibly compared to the agony raging in X6’s ribcage. </p><p> </p><p>Linnea’s freckles had faded, her cheekbones hadn’t shed her baby fat, she’d cut her hair into a pixie cut. Her mother would have hated that, always bragging about her daughter’s long, curly hair.</p><p> </p><p>She looked like Dr. Paris. She looked like her father. Apple-cheeks, hazel-green eyes, tightly coiled hair, even had the wrinkles in the corner of her eyes and thick, straight brows. </p><p> </p><p>How did he not notice sooner?</p><p> </p><p>His heart was slamming against his chest like a caged bird thrown into a river. </p><p> </p><p>Linnea- <em> Dr. Quay </em> straightened herself. “No, I’m afraid not. He was quite vocal about his admancy for synths rights, so he was never popular among his peers or subordinates. You would have liked him.” She sighed. Dr. Quay paused, brows furrowing in thought. “I can’t imagine that he’d’ve kept all his research on paper, now that you mention it. If I remember right, he had a servant. I don’t remember what happened to them, but they would probably know.” </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel sat up straighter, body focused and ready to leap into action, prepared to jump up and run out the door for answers. “How do we find this servant? Do you remember their number?”</p><p> </p><p>X6 clawed at the flesh of his arm, drawing blood, staining his fingers in red. Wet, sickly warm flesh sunk under his nails.</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head, and he released his grip in relief. “No, afraid not. I was never allowed near them, Mom hated them. I don’t know if it’s <em> ever </em>put on record what synth works for who - and I doubt anyone who knew my dad remembers either. I’ll ask around. Maybe a synth knows.”</p><p> </p><p>The Director nodded respectfully, setting down the papers. “Got it. Let me know if you find anything. Was there anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yeah. There’s rumors that one of the coursers is trying to kill you.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a long, heavy pause. </p><p> </p><p>“Say what now?”</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay shrugged. “It’s mostly just wishful thinking. Some people really want you to regret your reforms. I haven’t seen nor heard of any courser that held ill will toward you, and no one has been reported to be programming one to go after you against its will. I mentioned it to Curie the other week.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 blinked behind his sunglasses, remembering that conversation he and the doctor had a few days ago at book club.</p><p><br/>“Okay, what do we know about this rumor, like who started it? I’d like to think Jess is safe down here without hearing sh*t about a courser after him, I don’t care if he can handle one on his own.” Preston worried as he leaned back, rightfully concerned. </p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Theodore Damokosh is the one. He thinks that the courser you travel with wants you dead or something. I don’t know. I try to ignore him.”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates. “He thinks X is trying to kill me?” He parroted, pointed at X6 with his thumb. </p><p> </p><p>X’s heart went still as Linnea considered him, having ignored him the entire time. “Oh, is that the-? I can never tell without the jacket. But yeah, Damokosh just likes causing problems. I don’t know what his deal is. It’s just bored scientists who are against change. I wouldn’t pay it much mind.” </p><p> </p><p>The man seemed to suspend his belief, but nodded and shrugged. “If you say so.” He slid the papers back over, to which Dr. Quay neatly returned them to the file. “So, brawl, Curie, servant, assassination rumors. Am I forgetting anything?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, sir. That’s everything. I have everything noted down in this, for your viewing whenever you have time.” She stood from her seat, leaning over to hand the folder to Mr. Boswel. “Check back in a week or so, I believe we’ll have more updates and progress with the cloning project. Have a good day.”</p><p> </p><p>And with that, Linnea waved as she slipped out the door, gone as quickly as she turned X6’s new, already-unstable world upside down. </p><p> </p><p>The railroad agent beside him gasped sharply. “Oh, wait, wait, I got another one; Pain-in-the-sungl<em> ass </em>. Eh? That’s good, right? C’mon, you know it’s good.” Deacon ribbed, nudging at X. The agent turned to look at the synth to see the reaction of his attempt at irritating him further. But then, Deacon frowned, eyeing his arm. “Why are you bleeding?”</p><p> </p><p>X6 stared at the red drying on his fingers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not gonna post the chapter guidelines anymore - don't want to spoil anything. I don't want to be like, Game of Thrones plot-twist, but I'm hoping that there are still people who haven't pieced everything together yet. </p><p>So, if you enjoyed this chapter or any chapter, let me know. Comments fuel me and are what keep me writing this thing. Someone told me that they finished reading this at 4 am with a keyboard smash, and to this day, it is one of the highest compliments ive ever gotten. </p><p>Funfact- I ship XD. Which is just.. x6 x deacon. Im garbage, i know.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A meeting in the Institute goes wrong.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You guys didn't think I'd forget about you, did you? ;)</p><p>So sorry for the delay though, seriously. I've been bouncing from this chapter, to chapter 2 of my prexson fic, to doing nothing all day but playing Overwatch or watching You Suck At Cooking. </p><p>Writer's block is kicking my kiester right now, but I'm gonna be house-sitting for a friend for today and tomorrow, and maybe Saturday, so that leaves me plenty of time to work on chapters. I'll be working on chapter 2 of tpcbiotgu after this uploads.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was perfectly fine.</p><p> </p><p>X6-88 woke up that morning, fed the cat, made himself a proper healthy breakfast with veggies, read more chapters of ‘The City of Yearning’ for next week’s book club, found out that the cat knew how to start a bubble bath and didn’t know how to swim but was determined to learn even if it killed her. So while he was frantically fishing in his bubble-swamped tub for his f*cking cat, Boswel, having entered his apartment without knocking or announcing his arrival, walked into the bathroom and on his security chief cursing up a storm while flinging bubbles all over. </p><p> </p><p>Fun afternoon. </p><p> </p><p>Right up until Boswel told him that Quay wanted them down there ‘ASAP’ because of ‘stunning progress’ in Bioscience and Advanced Systems, one of which he had to come tag along, because it required his presence due to his position as security chief. Probably had something to do with the turret upgrades the Minutemen had been requested since, what, <em> forever?  </em></p><p> </p><p>So, he hurriedly dried himself and Pyewacket off, tripped over her while rushing to get dressed in dry clothes and gave himself a bruised brow bone, and now he was in the elevator with the man. </p><p> </p><p>Boswel had his arms crossed as he tapped his fingers against the other, in time with some melody he hummed quietly. </p><p> </p><p>It was odd to him at first, but Boswel’s needs to hum wasn’t a bother anymore - even if he didn’t understand it. Sometimes it wasn’t even a tune, just vocalizing noises, or flat droning. Curie said it was a ‘stim’ for his AD/HD, like X was supposed to know what either of those meant. He had basic understanding that it was a mental illness, but synths were not educated on mental health. Hell, Curie’s mention of it was the first time he heard of it. </p><p> </p><p>Aside from the whir of the elevator and Boswel’s humming, the ride down was silent. All the better for X6 to fret over the knot in his stomach and agitate it further with his endless stream of insecurities. </p><p> </p><p>He really, really hoped he wouldn’t have to see Quay again. </p><p> </p><p>It was a special kind of pain, of which no ways of soothing existed - the ache in your heart of shame, and guilt, the viled rage at yourself for an apology you know you’re too weak to say, the way a bitter realization kissed coldy down your spine.</p><p> </p><p>The sorrow that dared to wreak havoc on his carefully built walls during the last meeting would be there again. They would be wherever Linnea walked.  </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The elevator slowed to a stop, Advanced System’s signboard taunting him as it opened. </p><p><br/>At least Piper would be there. Publick Occurrences had a key relationship with the Institute, keeping the topside informed and updated on every little thing going on, a vast change from their previous wonder. Nothing got past Piper, nothing escaped being put to paper. Hell, she and her newspaper were the only thing keeping the locals from going up against any of the Commonwealth’s organizations.</p><p> </p><p>He bit back the sigh of disappointment as he realized that, if Piper was down there on unrelated business, she wouldn’t likely be free. Or she was smuggling more fruit. Probably the latter. </p><p> </p><p>Piper, at any given moment where she was in the Institute and unattended, was in Bioscience and stealing produce. Last time, he heard she snuck out with a couple pounds of strawberries hidden under her shirt, saying she was pregnant to bypass security; even though they saw her very much not pregnant when she walked in. </p><p> </p><p>Synths weren’t really taught about human reproduction, either.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Advanced Systems was busier than ever - X couldn’t blame Quay for her constant lateness. Running around on errands for higher-ups took longer than you’d expect. Especially with the pieces of work in that specific division. Being good at math did something to people. X was proficient in it too, make no mistake, but he was an example of it. His ego was bigger than the moon, and he could do topology that would make a cosmologist cry. Something about math skills made you full of yourself - just look at MacCready, that man didn’t even know what algebra was and had one of the lowest self-esteems out of all of them.</p><p> </p><p>Quay was writing something on a clipboard, talking with a tall, thin man in a maintenance jumpsuit with over-gelled brown hair and an aggravating look in his eye. </p><p> </p><p>The scientists and synths alike jumped to attention at the Director’s arrival - some with scorn, other’s with smiles and waves and chirpy ‘Good Evening!’s. </p><p> </p><p>Should be easy to figure out who was doing what. </p><p> </p><p>Boswel, ever the extravert, waved and nodded to everyone, the idea of <em> not </em>mingling with his underlings a foul line he wouldn’t touch with a twenty-foot pole.</p><p> </p><p>As they approached the doctor and string-bean man, Dr. Quay glanced up from her clipboard, smiling politely. “Hello again, Director. I’m glad you could make it, sorry again for my delay. You look away from these things for even a second, and they gear up to fall apart.” She elbowed the engine on the table behind her, dismantled for thorough inspection. </p><p> </p><p>Her mouth opened to say something, but the man next to her coughed lightly, making her nose scrunch up and eyes roll. “This is Damokosh. Well, assuming you haven’t met already.” She said tersely, a fake civility in her voice. </p><p> </p><p>X6 squinted at her choice wording, at the silent ‘because no one deserves that’. He couldn’t blame her - the man gave him a queasy distaste in his stomach, what with his fumigation air of grease. Maybe it was the hair gel. Seriously, his hair looked slimy, like how he imagined Medusa when Boswel first told him of her. </p><p> </p><p>Damokosh smiled widely, though his eyes didn’t change. They just narrowed, making his smile look more like he was gnashing his bleachy-white teeth. He offered a bony handshake, waggling his brows - a gesture that X thought should have gotten him arrested for indecent exposure and also aggravated assault on everyone’s eyeballs. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s quite a pleasure to meet you, Director. Never good to be strangers in our line of work, I always thought.” Damokosh grinned, the noise that made X’s trigger finger itch, so opposed to this man being anywhere near his charge.</p><p> </p><p>Boswel flashed his own smile, bright and handsome and<em> not terrifying </em> even with his pointy snaggle-teeth. “Feeling’s mutual doc.” He said, head noticeably still and unmoving. </p><p> </p><p>A lot of people thought Boswel was hard to read - he wasn’t. He didn’t really use hand gestures, but the key way to figure out how he actually felt about someone? Watch his head. Boswel gestured with his head by tilting it, nodding, shaking it, whatever - so if his head was still, <em> not </em>emoting with his speech?</p><p> </p><p>He <em> hated </em>the person he was talking to. </p><p> </p><p>And Jesse Boswel was always right about a person’s character. <em> Every single time. </em> So, if <em> Jesse f*cking Boswel </em> didn’t like someone right off the bat? You should stay the f*ck away from them. Many people ignored that advice and it bit them in the a**. It was a golden rule in the Commonwealth. </p><p> </p><p>X6 found comfort in the knowledge that it wasn’t just him who was being skeeved out by Damokosh, who laughed, empty and fake and hollow like a bone snapped open for the marrow. “Not one of the scientists. I’m just a handyman from Facilities. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.” </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay rolled her eyes, interjecting. “Now that we’re all familiar, there are three things I needed to speak with you about.” She flipped some papers in her clipboard. “Firstly, I’ve gotten confirmation that my father was, indeed, buried with all of his research. All of it. Not a single holotape or USB drive was left, it was all put into his coffin. So, there goes that idea.”</p><p> </p><p>Boswel clicked his tongue, frowning slightly. “And what else?”</p><p> </p><p>“Apparently, his servant is still alive, but working with the Minutemen. That’s all I was able to gather for now. But, there is a chance they’ve been wiped - most synths have been, at some point.” Dr. Quay said with an air of casualty. “But, the good news is that we’ve perfected new types of grow beds for new produce - the latest project being Bioscience’s work on apple trees. A team found seed samples hidden away in the ruins of an orchard, so that’s something to look forward to. Marisol, my wife, is spearheading the project in Bioscience if you have any questions.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good work.” Mr. Boswel whistled, arms folded proudly. “Is she in there right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Should be. She can be found in one of the back-labs. But before you go, we’ve also made some progress in higher-potency laser turrets - the ones your Minutemen were asking for? </p><p> </p><p>Boswel nodded at Quay, jerking his head at X6. “Then you’re gonna want this guy. Chief of Security, that’s all yours, bud. I’ll be right back.” </p><p> </p><p>Wait, what?</p><p> </p><p>“But I-” X6 blurted, perfectly fine a moment ago, now getting heart palpitations just at the thought of being left alone in the Institute, left alone with Linnea, left alone with Slime-Ball Dirtbag. He called out to Boswel’s back, already almost out the door. “Don’t you have to officiate all weaponry upgrades?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re not done yet, so not now, no. You’ll do great!” Boswel called back, giving him a thumbs up and slipping out of the lab. </p><p> </p><p>B*stard. Utter, complete, <em> total f*cking b*stard- </em></p><p> </p><p>“So, you’re the S.C that’s been badgering us to get on these for the last year?” </p><p> </p><p>His train of thought, tracks leading straight to Boswel-Gets-No-Rights-Ville and I’m-Gonna-P*ss-In-His-Garden-Opolis, was thrown from its course by Dr. Quay’s good-humored remark. </p><p> </p><p>The engineer stood with her head tilted, a brow raised at his high-potent, focused ire at the door where Boswel’s back and ‘Look at my synth-grandchild, he’s gonna do great’ smile just was. X6 cleared his throat, willing the flush on his cheeks to cool. “Correct. Gunner espionage has been occurring more frequently than usual, and I don’t desire to see them grow any bolder nor make it back alive to relay any gathered information.” </p><p> </p><p>Damokosh looked him up and down, a study that made his skin crawl, like he was a frog being chosen for vivisection. “Since when do synths get to lead armies?” He drawled, a diminutivizing scoff in his tone</p><p> </p><p>“Since Boswel, <em> the Director you just played chummy to.” </em> Dr. Quay quipped, the corner of her mouth curling downward. She waved him off, “Now, away with you.” Damokosh’s eyes flashed with a dark look, but shrugged, smirking almost malapert, taking his tool box and strolling over to a different scientist.</p><p> </p><p>She sighed, tension falling from shoulders’ X6 hadn’t noticed were squared the whole time. “Thank god.” Dr. Quay murmured, before realizing her present company and straightening herself. “The prototype is in the shooting range. We’ve tested it out a few times on dummies, and the auto-fire is an estimated 63.7% more accurate than the previous model. Right this way, please.” </p><p> </p><p>She turned on her heel, X6 hesitantly following a distance behind.</p><p> </p><p>The shooting range had a heavily-plated laser turret mounted and powered, cords trailing to a power box nearby. It was tall, more high-tech than the scavenged-together peashooters he was forced to work with in settlements. </p><p> </p><p>He whistled. “Have to admit, that’s already just <em> looking </em>better than what we’ve got.”</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay hummed, smug and proud of her division’s work. “The plating is an inconel-chromium alloy, so it doesn’t go down as easily to grenades or ballistic rounds. And for energy rounds…” She walked over to the table it perched on, picking up a remote and pushing a button. A glass and metal frame popped up in front of the turret, and a bright, blue light shone from inside the frame. “...We developed a crude version of an electro-magnetic force field, which will keep out other energies from passing through it.” </p><p> </p><p>X6 stared at her. “Holy sh*t, that’s a game-changer - I like it.” He laughed, already dreaming of the possibilities. God, if they had these things mounted, those Gunner scumbags wouldn’t have even made it back in pieces. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s still in a beta-phase, but we’re getting close to perfecting it. Once we can refine the science behind it, we’ll start work on making hand-held versions. The BoS has already complained about it, so I think we’re on the right track.” </p><p> </p><p>“When will these be ready for use?”</p><p> </p><p>“No idea. The turret works well on it’s own, so its line can be produced whenever, but the field still needs to be checked over. The possibility of it going horribly wrong is still too high to even think about sending these out for mounting right now.”</p><p> </p><p>A shadow from the doorway caught his eye - tall and thin and watching. </p><p> </p><p>Damokosh leaned against the frame, staring boredly, arms crossed over his chest. </p><p><br/>Watching him, like he was a frog being picked for vivisection. </p><p> </p><p>X6 readied himself, the shape of threat making him idly rest his hand near his pistol.<br/><br/></p><p>Dr. Quay stiffened for a moment - X6 assumed she could feel Damokosh’s unwanted, slimy gaze - before fidgeting. The awkward picking at her nails made her look too much like the girl from  before. </p><p> </p><p>“Stepping away from the turrets for a moment, I...I had a favor to ask, if it isn’t too much trouble.”</p><p> </p><p>Like he’d ever turn her down.</p><p> </p><p>X6 did not do favors for just anyone. </p><p> </p><p>But Linnea was not the average topside scum or Institute egomaniac. She was the last thing in the world from Dr. Paris. She was his only legacy. <br/><br/></p><p>She was all he had to show the world that such a man existed. </p><p> </p><p>He folded his arms. “Go ahead.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m still looking for my father’s attendant, and I think they’re working with the Minutemen now. I don’t remember their serial number or if they had a name - I never really met them - but could you maybe ask around? It’s not even about the research, really. I’d...I’d like to talk with them, about my dad - see what he was like from someone who <em> didn’t </em> hate him, Ma never had anything good to say.” Linnea laughed softly, <em> bitterly </em>, at the last sentence, hugging herself.</p><p> </p><p>His throat tightened.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, sure.” He said, voice barely choking. </p><p> </p><p>He owed it to her. </p><p> </p><p>He owed so much to her he could never give. </p><p> </p><p>“Bit of a weird thing to ask, don’t you think?” Came a barbed mocking from the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay bristled immediately, hackles raising. She whipped around, glaring daggers at Damokosh. “Are you even permitted to <em> be </em>in here?” She snapped.</p><p> </p><p>Damokosh raised his hands defensively. “Hey, it’s a genuine question!” He said snidely. “Why would you ask a synth about a person’s personal synth? Think another person, preferably someone the former knew, would be a better bet. Like me! I worked with Wally all the time, why not give me a try?” Damokosh goaded, eyes flickering at her irritation. </p><p> </p><p>Wait, hang on-</p><p> </p><p>He knew Dr. Paris?</p><p> </p><p>X6’s stomach dropped. </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Quay scoffed. “Unless you have answers, I <em> kindly </em>ask you to leave.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just said I did?”</p><p> </p><p>Damokosh winked at X, lazy smile turning to a venomous smirk. </p><p> </p><p>Frog for vivisection it was, then. </p><p> </p><p>“Then who is it?” She sighed, rubbing at her temples, thinking Damokosh was talking out of his a**. He couldn’t have been. He winked at him, for f*ck’s sake, he had to know. </p><p> </p><p>In the clinical light of the shooting range, a cold air passed through him like a ghost taking him for possession, rendering him statuesque, helpless as he watched the castle walls quiver apart. </p><p> </p><p>“Try the bot you just asked.” Damokosh hissed gleefully, eyes aglow with excitement for the sh*tshow. “Might surprise you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh cr*p, oh cr*p, oh cr*p- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Linnea’s eyes narrowed as she sighed, aggravated and disbelieving. She turned to X, rife with scepticism. “Are you my father’s servant?” She asked, tone flat and sarcastic, thinking she was humoring Damokosh and not playing right into his sadistic game.</p><p> </p><p>Even just the question made his stomach drop. No truth, no secret slipped, and yet even the barebones knowledge being said, in open air, in a too-bright room-</p><p> </p><p>He was helpless.</p><p> </p><p>There was no turning back now. The castle walls had fallen and crushed the courser.</p><p> </p><p>It was just him, now. </p><p> </p><p>Just the synth he tried so hard, all his life, to cage and hide away. </p><p> </p><p>Linnea’s eyes, so full of irritation just one moment ago, softened, squinted, glancing over his features as they noticed his stiffness and tight jaw and how he folded into himself like there was nothing inside, like he was hollow and gutted. </p><p> </p><p>And those eyes widened. </p><p> </p><p>She was silent as she took a step back, confused and hesitant. “...It was <em> you… </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>His nails dug into his palms, heart racing as his mouth tried to form words, even just sounds, but the silence was her bitter answer. </p><p> </p><p>“Then why didn’t you say something?” Linnea’s sputtered, bewildered as if-</p><p> </p><p>...as if she didn’t know…</p><p> </p><p>Damokosh did. </p><p> </p><p>No other reason why he would do this. </p><p> </p><p>“Probably because it didn’t want you to know.” Damokosh sneered as he leaned against the door frame. “After all, it’d be weird to admit even as a machine.”</p><p> </p><p>There it was. </p><p> </p><p>X6’s glare could have killed him, and it would have, if he didn’t want to throttle the man himself, feel that pulse weaken and fade under his palms. </p><p> </p><p>“Admit what?” Linnea raised a brow, oblivious to the terse air in the room, the heated, murderous squared away in X’s shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>Damokosh tilted his head, broadly smirking. “You don’t know? The old man was murde-”</p><p> </p><p><em> “I know.” </em> Linna spat, glare almost as sharp as X’s. “What does that have to do...with...anything...” </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes narrowed, sentences falling off as Damokosh’s loaded words clicked together. She grit her teeth. “Stop with the bullsh*t and say what you want to, Ted.” </p><p> </p><p>X heart beat against his ribs, like it was buried alive in a coffin, like it could get out of this hurt if it escaped, fled his body and went elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>There was no way out of this.</p><p> </p><p>No way out but through, Boswel always said. </p><p> </p><p>Damokosh tilted his head. “So, you know Wally was murdered in his room while he slept? By a synth?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Cut the riddles, a**hole!” </em> Linnea snarled, hands balling tightly at her side, mirroring X’s own shaking, bleeding fists.</p><p> </p><p>“What synth would have had access to his room at that time?”</p><p> </p><p>The ball dropped, shattering against the floor into daggers. </p><p> </p><p>Linnea’s eyes were wide and painfully soft, like the girl she was years ago, trying to figure out how to grieve for a man she never knew.</p><p> </p><p>X stood there, like a coward, unable to deny the barest of truths. </p><p> </p><p>He staggered back, the heat of stares burning him alive, no gaze more aflame than Linnea's. Her eyes widened, his silence a bitter confession that he could never take back, never change.</p><p> </p><p>“You killed him.” She breathed, face alight with betrayal.</p><p> </p><p>Words fell uselessly on his tongue, a vile ball in his throat blocked whatever pathetic apology, excuse, reason he could come up with. It didn’t matter, nothing would make this right. Nothing would ease either of their pain, nothing would stop the storm from tearing through the castle. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to say sorry.  </p><p> </p><p>But what good would that do?</p><p> </p><p>Damokosh grinned as he slipped out of the range. </p><p> </p><p>He’d kill him. </p><p><br/>He swore that he’d kill that f*cker. </p><p> </p><p>“But…” Her breathing turned rapid as she swallowed, eyes wet. “But everyone told me he and his- he and <em> you </em> were like father and son, why would you-?”</p><p> </p><p>“I-” The words refused to come, his voice lost in the uselessness of them. </p><p> </p><p>“He trusted you and you <em>killed </em>him.” Linnea blurted, the bitter truth discerning itself in her mind; that her father’s killer stood before her. The cognizance and betrayal faded, melted away as anger filled across her soft features. “You <em>son of a b*tch,</em> after everything he did for you, you murdered him in his living quarters that he welcomed you into? Anyone else would have treated you like a machine, but you got the<em> one man</em> <em>who respected you</em> and <em>you slaughtered him!?”</em> She snarled.</p><p> </p><p>He choked on the guilt, words coming in a jumbled mess of desperate whimpers as he stumbled backwards past the table. “I didn’t <em> mean </em> to- It was an <em> accident, </em> I swe-” </p><p> </p><p>Boswel barreled into the room, multiple guards right behind him.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Accident?” </em> She echoed, slamming her clipboard on the ground. “My father’s dead and you expect me to be okay with it, because it was an <em> accident?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“What the f*ck is going on here? I left you alone for ten minutes!” Boswel blurted in bafflement, running in front of X with his hand on his taser, always ready to protect him even if he didn’t need it.</p><p> </p><p>In a surge of fury, Linnea took her arm and sent the research and equipment on the table to the floor with one swipe. "My father is <em> dead </em> because of him! He <em> trusted </em> him! He treated him like his <em> own child </em> - like he could have with <em> me </em> if he wasn't <em> murdered in his own f*cking room!" </em> She screamed in his face, tears spilling freely down her own.  Linnea turned to X6, still paralyzed by truth. "How could you?! Did his love not mean anything to you?! I would have killed for that! I would have killed to have my dad! And you- you just took him away from me!"</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Boswel glanced back at X, his eyes narrowed, questions on his tongue, fingers twitching the need to do something. He turned back to Linnea. “Quay, I need you to focus and think about this, this isn’t going to go well for you if you don’t calm down-”</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down!?” She sobbed, no concern for the taller man nor his taser at the ready. The anger in her words was lost in the sea of pain. “F*ck you! F*ck you to hell and back, my father is dead because of him!” </p><p> </p><p>Two guards advanced, quickly grabbing hold of Linnea’s arm even as she resisted and thrashed in their grasp. Linnea dissolved into tears as the guards escorted her out of the range.</p><p> </p><p>“X?”</p><p> </p><p>Boswel stood at arm's length, hand reached out but not touching, hovering just above his tense, clammy skin.</p><p> </p><p>X didn’t move. Just stared at the door, Linnea’s tear-stained cheeks burned into his mind.</p><p> </p><p>A hand settled at his back, on his shoulder blade. Boswel was at his side, shaking him softly to get his attention. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t look at him. Not with the shame and self-revulsion daring to make itself known through the wetness in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>There was something in his voice, so calm and composed, like this was normal. Like he’d dealt with his gang of freaks so much that nothing phased him - like he’d expected this. </p><p> </p><p>The thought made him want to puke. But even worse, his tone was rough. Heavy. Not his glowing, airy cheer, the soft cotton words of comfort he always had.</p><p> </p><p>It sounded disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>Tired of this little dance around his feelings. </p><p> </p><p>Tired of him. Just like X knew he would be.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to curl up into a ball and die. </p><p> </p><p>That hand crept up around his arm, Boswel pulling him closer into a half-hug, a warm bulk, something to lean on and hide in and find a way to make all the pain go away. </p><p> </p><p>Boswel was comfort. He was the personification of it, always warm and soft never leaving you to hurt alone. Never giving up on you. </p><p> </p><p>It was why X despised him and dreamt of running to him. The idea of something solid, something that wouldn’t hurt, was everything he ever wanted. </p><p> </p><p>But he was a murderer. </p><p> </p><p>Murderers did not deserve comfort, no matter how tired they were. </p><p> </p><p>He stepped out of the embrace that he craved so badly to the point of madness, stalking to the door.</p><p> </p><p>“X, what happened here?” Mr. Boswel called, voice gentle and hesitant. </p><p> </p><p>He stopped in his tracks, a desperation to be honest, with himself and everyone else, clawing at his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Honesty terrified him. Being honest meant people knowing he was weak, vulnerable, scarred easily. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to be honest. He wanted to get out that door and have something real, not built on lies and secrets. </p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t. He was weak.</p><p> </p><p>There was no going out that door. </p><p> </p><p>Shooting out from the window?</p><p> </p><p>He was a highly-trained, deadly killer.</p><p> </p><p>That he could do. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s none of your business.” He growled. The words were cyanide on his teeth, empty envenomed lace. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he growled them. His hands shook, his voice trembled, his body tried to cave in on itself, but the fire of shame could engulf those around it. The only time his pain showed was when he gave it to someone else. He <em> burned </em>in it. He was the wildfire and the forest, the storm and the lightning rod, the tornado and the world swept in it. </p><p> </p><p>“Υιός, it’s my business when someone accuses you of murder. We need to talk about this.” Boswel pleaded, following behind him. </p><p> </p><p>“Or what?” He whipped around, incapable of being honest, of not pushing away whatever hurt. “Or you’ll wipe me? Send me to Retention? What could you possibly hold against me to tell you sh*t?”</p><p> </p><p>Boswel was always perceptive. He could tell by how little the words hurt that his veneer of hostility was seen through like glass. “I can tell you’re pushing away, X. You make it obvious.”</p><p> </p><p>Truth was the one thing that crippled him - about Paris, about himself, about his feelings; he was a worse liar than Deacon. Everything was for show, for defense, for his own comfort. </p><p> </p><p>He never could be honest. With himself, or anyone else. </p><p> </p><p>“Pushing away <em> what </em> , exactly?” X growled anyway, too weak and fragile beneath the shell to dare let it crack so easily. “There’s <em> nothing </em>between us! You’re the director. I am your soldier. That’s it. Why do you convince yourself that you’re some all-knowing empath that knows everyone better than they themselves?”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, X.” Boswel said softly. </p><p> </p><p>The shell cracked.</p><p> </p><p>He had more jeers, more things to try and break the man before him-</p><p> </p><p>But yet another truth, one he’d been ignoring, struck in the one weak spot of his carefully built walls. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t and he didn’t want to, but he would. </p><p> </p><p>He’d do it over and over in a heartbeat. </p><p> </p><p>The prospect of that softness, the safety of comfort, could sing its siren song for as long and loud as it wanted. He’d clap his hands over his ears and scream over it till his voice went bloody and hoarse. </p><p> </p><p>In other days, he would have ran to it, to Dr. Paris, in those days when his eyes were soft and bright and he smiled more often than not, when his hands were free of blood and his voice of harshness. </p><p> </p><p>In better days, he wouldn’t be this. </p><p><br/>Those days died with Dr. Paris. “You don’t need to hurt like this, X. If you would just talk to me-”</p><p> </p><p><b> <em>“I don’t f*cking need you!” </em> </b>And they took a piece of him to their graves. </p><p> </p><p>The words do nothing to keep the wall in one piece, keep his voice from cracking and even and at least pretending that he isn’t trying to convince himself of them. </p><p> </p><p>Another terror, lost in the booming thunder, was the absence of that voice, the horrid scratching of teeth and claw against his spine. The one that whispered things to make him push away, isolate himself, hurt everyone he dared to love until they left and took something of him with, until he was nothing but stripped bone. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need the voice. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Figure it out, Boswel.” </em> X hissed, the man’s uncrackable composure mocking his own. “You can’t <em> save </em> everyone. I told you <em> over and over </em> that <em> some people don’t deserve it, </em> but you’ve always been <em> too soft </em> to realize it. I’ve tried to get through your thick skull that <em> I. Don’t. Care. </em> But you’re too busy playing <em> hero </em> and <em> good samaritan </em> to understand the concept of <em> ‘Leave me the f*ck alone!’ </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Boswel didn’t even flinch. All that changed in his expression was the regretful glint, the knowing that X would cave in on himself for doing this later. He always did, and he always knew when he did. </p><p> </p><p>Of course Boswel would try to keep that from happening - wouldn’t leave him to his guilt, leave him to the hands of shame. </p><p> </p><p>“We both know that isn’t you talking.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice was softer than cotton.</p><p> </p><p>It sounded a lot like pity. </p><p> </p><p>More words of poison dripped from his teeth, but the sorrow, this strange, understanding compassion in Boswel’s eyes froze them, made them fall silent on his tongue. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to scream, to rain down every swear he knew, cut at every insecurity Boswel didn’t have, do something to change the power, make Boswel the weak and frail and cowardly one while he stood stoic and unmoving but- </p><p> </p><p>Something warm formed on his lash line. </p><p> </p><p>He had to get out of here. </p><p> </p><p>He’d do all of those things, anything to make himself alone, but he would never cry in front of Boswel. In front of anyone. That was the one line he would not cross.</p><p> </p><p>He turned on his heel, storming out of the room, ignoring Boswel’s calls for him as the man followed. </p><p> </p><p>The scientists in the lab stood still in groups, whispering hushedly to each other - like about Linnea’s arrest. They stared at him, some shouting questions from across the room, others running out of his way. </p><p> </p><p>A rhythmic tapping against the floor bounded up to him, Piper’s arms full with a bowl of fruit. “There you are! Sorry I couldn’t come, Holdren was being a b*tch. I snatched some raspberries while they weren’t looking, they’re delectab-” She stopped mid-sentence, his shaking hands and wavering breathing catching her off guard. “X? You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He side-stepped past, not daring to look at her. </p><p> </p><p>“X?” Piper called as he hurried out the door. </p><p> </p><p>The plaza was always full of people, all too busy to notice one stiff, shaking, and tight-jawed synth as he made a bee-line for somewhere quiet. </p><p> </p><p>Going into the plaza was a mistake, it turned out. </p><p> </p><p>The sleepy eeriness he felt last time had awakened, came alive a cacophony of madness. Buzzing, whirs, clatter of machinery echoed, filled the space to every wall, leaving no room for still air as the harried workers, synth and human alike, ran about the plaza, every shape and color blending into a mess of sludge, like the paint he spilled the other day mixed into senselessness. </p><p> </p><p>Beneath the roaring noise, Piper and Mr. Boswel calling for him to come back, echoed, the worry so clear in their voices despite the surrounding sounds drowning everything else out. </p><p> </p><p>He wished he was brave enough to go back. Go back, admit he was wrong and lying and hurt, maybe find solace in the truth for once. Let himself have something, be happy for once in his life since Dr. Paris.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe even find the old man’s comforting fortitude in someone else. </p><p> </p><p>But he was the one who took it, took Dr. Paris, away from the world.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t deserve it, now. The elevator was getting closer, even as the horde of movement and noise only drew more repulsive tears from his eyes, overwhelmed beyond anything he had to stomach or withstand before. There was no hand-signal, no gesture to grant him peace from this. </p><p> </p><p>All that he needed was the private walls of his apartment. He’d cover the windows, bolt the door, and tear himself apart and find his comfort in that, find a calm in the numb aftermath of torment.</p><p> </p><p>He’d done it before and he was fine, so he’d do it again. It was fine, it was okay for him to do this and feel like this. There was no wrong in shaking against laying in bed, hands clasped over your mouth and eyes screwed shut to keep from crying as your body screamed for a comfort and warmth you didn’t deserve. It was normal. It was okay. It was fine.</p><p> </p><p>He was perfectly fine. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>again, sorry this took so long. Writing is difficult when Sombra exists as a playable character. </p><p>yes i am a sombra main, what of it</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Burning Sage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Time alone allows X6 to realize his shortcomings, and decide it's time to change them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Re-upload because Ao3 didn't put it on the 'Date Updated' page, and I'd like for people who were waiting for this to be able to find it.</p><p>follow @dandy-apple-dunce on tumblr for updates and more fo4 content.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>X6 paced around his kitchen. Pyewacket sat on the table, limbs tucked under her fluff, watching him change the direction he went around the table for the umpteenth time. Clockwise, counter-clockwise, clockwise, do it over again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He screwed up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was unquestionable. Every little thing that went wrong that day, he could have prevented. He could have escorted Damokosh out, shot him dead for trespassing, explained what happened to Linnea, kept his mouth shut and walked instead of screaming at Boswel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Change direction. Counter-clockwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How was he supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix </span>
  </em>
  <span>this? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Any </span>
  </em>
  <span>of this? There was no bringing back Dr. Paris, no taking back what he said, no going back in time to kill Damokosh. What do you do when the worst thing that could happen happens?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clockwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris was the greatest thing the Institute could brag about. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was kind but stern, warm but not overly-friendly, intelligent without ego, creative without naivety. Every little thing wonderful about humanity was Dr. Paris. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he was gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something in him left, too. The little things Dr. Paris taught him, placed in him like the bricks of a city, building him piece by piece until he was something to inspire pride. They left with him. And now, he was an empty husk, a coat among coursers, brutal machines of cruelty and teeth - the guard dogs, sent to sicc the cattle by their masters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris would have hated to see him become a courser. Counter-clockwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would have hated to see what he was now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 ran his hands through his hair again. Did he go apologize? Pretend it never happened? Shut everyone out unlike he ever had before? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No options seemed appealing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What hurt most was how well everything was going. But did that even matter if he ached with guilt? None of it brought back what he wanted most, so maybe it was better if he didn’t have it. Maybe there was something to be said for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did he deserve </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>after what he’d done?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 adjusted the buttons on his sleeve again, producing no meaningful outcome. Clockwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It should have been him that died. He was just a synth. He was expendable. They’d make more and better ones, he would have been replaced, Dr. Paris would have been alive, Linnea would have had her dad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 buttoned his sleeves back up. Counter-clockwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When his mind was like this, his hands grew restless, chaotic thoughts bringing chaotic fidgeting. If he didn’t find something to take his thoughts away from the ache in his heart, he wagered his sleeves would be unraveled in the next two hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cleaning wasn’t an option - he always had done every little thing he could forty-three times, anymore bleaching and dusting would kill the cat. He’d done laundry even when everything was clean, but wouldn’t twice, since waiting by the machines for the load to be done was just pacing in the bathroom. Brushing Pie anymore would render her bald. Organizing things that didn’t need to be organized - such as his already organized fridge items - grew tiring when he ran out of ways to order them. Color, alphabetical, height, weight, ignore color, ignore weight, order only by alphabet; it was a wonder he hadn’t lost his mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bedsheets. He hadn’t done the bedsheets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He walked calmly out of the kitchen into his bedroom - pretending that if he was collected outwardly, it would fix his clusterf*ck - Pie hopping from the table and meowing at his legs, likely confused with the break of what had been routine for the last fourteen hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mrr?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t give me that look.” He said, as if the cat had opinions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Marrw.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X opened the closet to fetch new sheets, Pyewacket jumping up onto a shelf immediately, the area sacred for its forbiddenity. “There is nothing wrong with good hygiene. But, I wouldn’t expect an animal to understand.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mowrrrr.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Pyewacket pawed at a pillowcase, sticking her head inside of it and crawling in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All of his three sheet spreads were the same - black, with minuscule detailing so he could tell them apart. The plain, solid-color black was right in front and not inhabited by a kitty who would fight to the death over linen, so that was pretty much the only option.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You</span>
  <em>
    <span> lick yourself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you have no right to talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bwwr.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly </span>
  </em>
  <span>normal!” He insisted, jabbing a finger at a cat that could not see him, and even if she did, would not care. These things lingered in his head, but acknowledging them meant acknowledging that he was, by default</span>
  <em>
    <span>, crazy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe organizing snack cake boxes by weight, color, height, and alphabetically by batch code </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>turn his brain to goo. In his defense, two were not identical. One was slightly heavier when weighed and compared to the others on a scale and had one-hundredths of a millimeter over the rest of them, and another had a scratch on it. There was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly </span>
  </em>
  <span>good reason for them to be organized. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pie beeped happily in her hidey-hole as he tore off the sheets from the bed and pillows, grimacing at noticeable white cat hair on black bedspread. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris would have loved her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X smacked himself in the face with a pillow, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>wumph </span>
  </em>
  <span>startling Pyewacket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the bedsheets, he’d have no distraction again. Unless he wanted to organize his spice cabinet by individual flake or granule for a second time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pie hopped down from her pillowcase fort, falling to the floor with a heavy thud, running up onto the bed and getting in the way of his attempts of trying to keep the fitted sheet in place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, you’re very cute, but you need to vacate the area.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Brrrwwrrr.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scooped up the kitten in his arms, leaned over and set her by the windowsill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, third attempt of getting the f*cking sheet to not jump back into a ball every time he tried to get it over the mattress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Atom Bomb Baby, Lil’ Atom Bo-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tchwa-a-ang</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 took a deep breath, trying to center himself as Pie stopped her bath to stare at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That f*cking song would be the death of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He palmed at his face, shuffling across the kitchen to pull the knife from the wall and thanking whatever deity might be out there that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>hit the window, even if that was his intention. The song still crooned from the apartment across from him, despite his best efforts to assassinate it via steak knife. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tugged at the handle, the blade leaving a clean split in the wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mrrrw?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I’ll admit that wasn’t my finest moment.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pie seemed to accept his humility, resuming her bath on top of the table.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leveled him with a look that screamed “I Will Lick Myself Where I Please And You Cannot Stop Me.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>With that attitude, lysoling the surface afterwards would be the easier option. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed, resuming his seventh attempt at finally emptying the dishwasher. It’d been clean for five days now - the sink was empty, and he washed dishes after use, but they couldn’t just stay in there. First time, he managed to put some silverware away before…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...giving up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was dishes. The drawer was right there. It wasn’t a difficult task - it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely </span>
  </em>
  <span>a task. But it was...exhausting? The only thing he could bring himself to do anymore was feed Pie. He hadn’t even showered in thirteen days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 groaned, smacking his head against the fridge as he remembered the laundry in the washing machine. Would have to start it again and not forget about it for days this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t like his apartment was falling apart, coming undone at the seams with filth and mess, but it wasn’t in </span>
  <em>
    <span>order</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There were things he needed to do, things he used to do as soon as he could because he wanted them done, but now it-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was barely anything and it was too much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where was that energy in his first two weeks of isolation? He reorganized his apartment over and over again without tire, why couldn’t he do the simple things that he knew would bring satisfaction and order and fix his mood? Work of any kind was draining, but laying down was the same. For days, every little thing took more and more from him that he didn’t have, like hands from the shadows picking him apart piece by piece. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pie jumped to the floor, rubbing against his leg. Palming his face with a sigh, he reached down to pet her, scratched behind her ears and under her chin the way she liked. Soft fur and warmth almost soothed his demur. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t ignore it forever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His door had been bolted shut and unopened for sixty days. He almost didn’t want to close it again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gritting his teeth, he elbowed it shut, Pie running up to him full of happy beeps at the bags of cat food. He’d neglect himself to absurdity, but never her. She didn’t deserve the brunt of his f*ckups. The cat weaved between his legs, a flicky tail brushing up against him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He set the bag on the floor next to the cupboard, where he’d usually put it away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lots of things weren’t happening lately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X tried to not think about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was a master of isolation. Introverted? Check. Independent? Check. Self-sufficient and capable of self-entertainment? Check. He was fine. Perfectly fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, last time he thought he was perfectly fine was-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope, don’t even think about that happening. Forget it existed, you’re never going to see them again anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As X6 groaned, he slammed his forehead against the cupboard, admitting in defeat that such a dream would not come true. That he’d have to go out that door again at some point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a while since something terrified him so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With...</span>
  <em>
    <span>the thing in the Institute</span>
  </em>
  <span>...his castle walls, that carefully built fortress of lies and defensiveness and loneliness crumpled. He spent years building it up, shoving down whatever softness or vulnerability he had down in the darkest prison cell he could. But now, both were gone. The apartment was his castle now, his walls keeping everything outside </span>
  <em>
    <span>outside</span>
  </em>
  <span>, away from wounds old, new, and freshly ripped open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The apartment was safe and everything he wanted to cling to and run from. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He missed Piper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God d*mn it, he missed all of them. Curie and her easy conversation, Mr. Boswel and his steadfast, unfaltering air that made you feel like maybe everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>be okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that was over, now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could go out that door. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing would be the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A surge of fury filled his veins, hands balling into fists. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This could have, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>should have</span>
  </em>
  <span>, been avoided. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things were going good. He knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>he f*cking knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it wouldn’t last, and he trusted it anyway. It laced itself with shine and sweetness, lulled him into a false sense of security with melodies of easing the loneliness that filled his chest, cleaning his hands of blood he couldn’t wash off in the sink no matter how hard he scrubbed. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was lying, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>he should have covered his ears and ran away from it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but he didn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The skies were clearest before the storm. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. He whispered it like a prayer every single day, knowing that nothing good lasted in the wasteland. But the</span>
  <em>
    <span> one time</span>
  </em>
  <span> he needed to listen to it most, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he ignored it? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What happened to him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was one of the best coursers to ever graduate the program. Rogue synths, machines who tried to play with the knives of emotion and thought and free thinking, feared him as a god, a demon from the shadows come to drag them back to hell. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was one of those synths. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was the faltering machine that wore emotion like a child in a costume, playing human at the risk of everything around it. And he was a courser. He was supposed to be one of the best, and now he fell victim to the trap he pulled so many others from? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How the f*ck did this happen?</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That godd*mned courser coat that was killed by eggs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That coat was a reminder, a reason to keep the Institute in power and its synths in check. With the coat, he was a courser, the best the Institute could offer. Without it, he was a synth. And synths were prone to listening to that siren song of humanity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If that coat hadn’t burned, he wouldn’t have moved out. If he hadn’t moved out, he wouldn’t have had this unsupervised space to discover new and enticing vices of sentience. If he hadn’t gotten trapped in them, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have been close enough to Piper or Boswel to lose them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A fire burned hot in his chest, an all-consuming inferno. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How could he be so foolish?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pathetic, disgraceful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>failure</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a courser. Years and years of this work, following the trail of destruction left by machines pretending to be human, watching the death and pain they caused, and he still did the same thing. How utterly </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappointing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He couldn’t even enforce</span>
  <em>
    <span> himself? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pathetic,</span>
  <em>
    <span> pathetic, </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>pathetic. </em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anger was a wonderful thing, when given the choice between it and that not-quite numb coldness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With anger, you could direct it, aim it at something else, turn it away from you and find some satisfaction in the crater it left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cold, still melancholy?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no one it could hurt but yourself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a Tuesday morning, three months since he threw away everything he had, and rain poured from the sky. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rain had started last week and refused to let up, as if it worried his mood would get better and couldn’t allow it. He hadn’t slept in maybe a week. It was fine, he was a courser, but the pull of his eyelids grew stronger and stronger each hour. From where he sat, the green of the strawberry fields out the window glowed, the only light in the dark gloom of storm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris would have loved to see even one aspect of his work completed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never really asked him about his project. The man mentioned his work only a few times, and without the passion he had for art and stories from before. Dr. Paris never cared for science as his love, but the greatest feeling for him was one of a task completed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The yearn for such a feeling crept into his framework, calcium steel itching for work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought of art in months. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How could he, with everything going on? Relief was not something that crossed his mind, days like these.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was something productive. He hadn’t been productive in days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Forcing creativity was something Dr. Paris abhorred; the drain of it on your passion would outweigh whatever feeling of completion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulled his weight from his seat, stalking down the hall for his supplies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you are unable to access the human power of creativity, there is no threat, nothing to be taken from. He was a machine - his work was barely art. He observed the space in front of him, and traced the lines and shadows. This was something any machine could do. There was no life in his work - only mimicry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Setting up the easel and canvas, Pyewacket rose from her sleep, stretching widely before trotting over to the window sill. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, that didn't mean he took no pride in his work. Every piece that came from his hands was a testament to the Institute's success in his kind - the mechanical prowess needed to perfectly replicate the scene in front of you was a high standard that many could never dream of achieving. The pencil traced Pyewhacket’s from in the window easily, not a single line out of place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A still calm came over him, a wave of a dreadful sort of peace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shouldn’t have been doing it. But his eyelids were heavy and heart in grief, and something selfish and human in him asked for a moment of reverie, and he was too weak to deny it brief elation. Still, as the shape of his cat in the window and the colorless fields of berries he had a generous view of apparated on blank white, the thought of Dr. Paris crossed his mind.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Lineart came easy for him, the sketch he’d follow with carefully maneuvered brush already almost finished in minutes. On that canvas, the image of Pie sitting idly at the window, a paw hanging off the side and tail wagging lazily, filled the space and soothed him only by a margin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lining was never the fun part - not to him, anyway. He loved the feeling of dragging a brush and seeing the picture come alive with color, once dull and monotonous, only to be filled with life and detail and character. It made him giddy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The oily smell of paint filled the air as he opened and poured the various paints he’d need - white, browns, some greys for shading, a dull yellow for lighting. Even just the composition of paint, the combination of color and exact machinations of it was incredibly satisfying. He added the colors to the palette in small dollops, just as Dr. Paris taught him - never add too much, lest the paint dry or the palette falls and spills. Little by little, have patience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Filling in the dark spots of Paint-Pie, the easiness allowed his mind to wander to other things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things he didn’t want to think about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How was he </span>
  <em>
    <span>like this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been losing his mind over his own mistake of being human, deviating from the path of the perfect courser, and here he was painting. How the hell did that make sense? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was something he held close - one of the few things he could argue over. No, he wasn’t being creative and expressing himself; he was practicing his attention to detail and fine motor skills. Of course, he never needed to. He hadn’t done this since Dr. Paris. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do this, ever since Dr. Paris. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet here he was. Painting his cat as she watched the workers in the strawberry fields. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris didn’t talk about his work much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything he had to regale to X, it was art, history, sociology - the man didn’t really care about science as a whole. His work was his baby, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>his work </span>
  </em>
  <span>alone. Everything else was just a pretentious field. It infuriated everyone else, how dismissive he could be of any other science. Honestly, X6 had theorized that the man just wanted to have actual fruit, not the dubious creations passed off as such.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 looked up, the sea of red and green bitterly visible from where he stood. The rain didn’t seem to touch the field - the busy street below his kitchen window suffered from the downpour, but the fields glowed with gentle sunbeams. Pie purred in the warm light, happy as she could be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6, despite all of the anguish that swarmed in his mind, smiled softly at the little moment he was capturing in gouache. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were no words to describe how he loved her. She was this soft little cotton ball that was as sweet as she was a criminal. Little sh*t would be her absolute cutest after doing something she knew she wasn’t allowed to do. Pie was the epitome of love, something he found naive - she adored him beyond anything else, and all because he let her into his home and fed her. And yet she acted like he was some saint, the brightest thing in her little world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like it didn’t matter to her what he did, she would love him anyway because to her, he deserved it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He started at the right side of the canvas, laying out the base layer of paint before he’d let that dry, then add the details on top. Fill in the walls with greys, furniture with a dull black. Fluff the brush to add the green fields outside and Pye’s actual fluff. He knew the steps by heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris would have loved this piece. The thought tore at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pyewacket, a happy ball of fluff, watching people harvest food they wouldn’t have without him? His cat in his home, overlooking the result of his creativity and ingenuity?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would have loved this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X swallowed, shaking the claustrophobic weight off of his shoulders. He dabbed white paint around the line art of Pie, trying to fluff out the substance to match the softness of the cat. Her tail flicked idly at the window, always her stillest when he was doing her portrait.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d gotten bigger. When he first brought her in, she was barely the size of his forearm. Now, she’d grown into a behemoth of fur and meows. She wasn’t a baby anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It pricked at his heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was, theoretically, immortal. Pyewacket wasn’t. One day, time would take her from him, just as it should have with Dr. Paris, just as it would with Piper, and Mr. Boswel, and everyone else he’d grown soft to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This happiness was fleeting. Temporary. A moth chasing a flame. Icarus soaring upwards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was temporary. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought brought forth a soreness in his throat, unpleasant warmth at his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pyewacket was blissfully unaware of the fact, or ambivalent to it. Honestly, he couldn’t see her </span>
  <em>
    <span>caring</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her days were slept away or spent batting around some object she shouldn’t have. Play, sleep, eat, repeat. A vapid but content way of living. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Animals had to know of death. And yet, as she sat at the windowsill, he saw no care of the finish line. Pye purred at the gentle breeze, fluffed up to defend against the cold, belly full and in a space she couldn’t have been safer nor more loved in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why would she care?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her life was everything she wanted - or at least, everything she could be content with. Whatever pain and fear she knew before in the wasteland was a waste of time to ponder. It didn’t matter anymore. No scavenging, no running and hiding; she ate like a queen, slept like a rock, played like she’d always have fun and personality no matter how grey her fur got. It didn’t matter to her. She was happy and that was all she cared about. Death was inevitable and happiness was fleeting so why not enjoy it while she could?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 resisted the urge to bang his head against the canvas. He was personifying a cat. God, what was wrong with him? He sighed, palming at his face as if it would wipe away the thoughts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was going to lose her. That was inevitable. But at least he had the portraits of her - something to remember her by. Keep her with him, in a way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a childish way to comfort himself. As he carefully swiped thin light-grey lines across Paint-Pye’s cheek for her whiskers, the idea bestowed him a peace of his own. It was logical. Death was inevitable, enjoy life while you can. It was so simple, something Mr. Boswel would approve of him adopting as a philosophy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet, the implications of such things drew him in further. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pye would leave, but he could remember her with all the little portraits he had of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris was gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Could he…?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 shook his head, indignance surging through his chest. No, he wouldn’t, even if he could. Memory was a tricky thing - he’d only disgrace the man’s countenance with his faulty imagination. He was a machine. Machines could not create.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Machines can’t create, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hammered into his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Machines can’t create.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter if he’d done it before. Those times were when he was more human than circuit boards. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wasn't a </span>
  <em>
    <span>machine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dr. Paris was his humanity, the only thing that could make him more than what he was made to be; a key to that Pandora’s Box. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But if he could just open that box himself somehow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he could find a way to rip off the lock, dig through the remains of humanity and memories he buried as far down as possible, maybe he could bring him </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe he could have him back in at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>some form</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sucked in a breath as he tried to focus his thoughts into something productive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>These thoughts were supposed to not happen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The anger, the dismissal, the black-hole of anguish, the endless attempts of trying to rationalize it somehow. They were supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They were supposed to be fixed, hidden away, when he buried the human emotion he inherited from a man who wasn’t his father. The destructive tornado of humanity was supposed to settle with Dr. Paris’ bones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything that should have worked - the self-torment, the dismissal of his feelings, the void, the failed logicality - did. Not. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Work</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had no way of </span>
  <em>
    <span>dealing </span>
  </em>
  <span>with this. It wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Everyone had someone and something. They all had Boswel, Boswel had Cabot. Piper had MacCready, Curie had Cait, Deacon and Danse had Nick. Everyone had someone to go to. He had the walls that wouldn’t talk. He always resented the castle but, God, he clung to it. It was safe and familiar. It was pain and a nightmare. It was all he knew and hated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That awful truth appeared to him in his mind, quiet and tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>He wanted </span><em><span>out</span></em><span> of it. Nothing hurt like the walls did. They were agony and shame and he hated them with a desperate fear. He hated them because for all his loyalty and trust in them, they </span><em><span>didn’t</span></em> <em><span>work</span></em><span>. All of the suffering behind them was for </span><em><span>nothing</span></em><span>. He still felt, had people reach and call out to him, succumbed to simple humanity. But he stayed. He stayed because they were what he knew. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something flickered alive in his ribs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn't work. The system was flawed and broken and he still listened to it. How was that efficient or productive? It didn’t work, the only results were misery. It didn’t work. All of the isolation and coldness and pushing away didn’t work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should try something new. </span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X6 stared at the canvas, at the empty space next to Pye at the window and on the canvas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had his own apartment. His cat sat happy, looking out to the gardens just out of the city that covered the plains. Paint stained his hands even though he was careful to stay clean, as it always had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris would have loved this. He would have loved to be here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He would have wanted to be here in any way he could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 fumbled at the brush holder on the table stand, pulling out a pencil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trying to push back everything he felt only ended in something worse. Maybe something new, something self-indulgent, would be better. Maybe he’d been wrong all this time. He certainly had the evidence to suggest otherwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Relief washed over him as his memory proved to be accurate, the echo of a face he missed dearly appeared before him with every feature appearing. And with relief, came bitterness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have done this sooner. Maybe this was a bad idea. All he knew was that what he did previously - the cold, hard mask of a courser - did not work, and all that time spent trying to convince himself it did and would was spent foolishly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His life was just an endless amount of ‘should have’, ‘could have’. Guilt and regret and shame. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was he so wrong to want a moment's peace? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was that really so bad? Was he really something dangerous for wanting just an okay life? Everything wanted that, why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t any Synth? Why was it wrong? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A weight lifted off of his shoulder like a carrion leaving for other corpses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was just universal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some peace found its way into his ribs. It was a new sensation, but with it he found the walls crumbling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was great at lineart. But evidently, his ability to remember faces was greater. Dr. Paris’s image stared out of the window with Pye, a hand brushing through her fur, a content smile on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 didn’t notice his own smile, tired and heartbroken, pulling across his own expression. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 poured more colors onto his palette with haste, dots of acrylic splashing onto him. If he could just finish this quickly, he could get out of the tornado’s spiral. He just needed to finish the painting, and he’d be safe. There wouldn’t be any torrent of confliction, only the fear of it on the horizon. He could live with </span>
  <em>
    <span>fear</span>
  </em>
  <span>; he lived </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>fear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Warm and dark browns, a dull blue, and a metallic grey covered the other side of his palette, and he wasted no time in bringing Paris to life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He started with the shadows, dark browns dabbed along the ridges and curves of his face. The colors seeped into the canvas, blending out on their own as they were absorbed by the material. X took another brush and dipped it into the warmer, brighter tones, following the shadows’ lines in brisk strokes as the colors blended together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rotten feeling swarmed at his lungs. This was wrong. He killed this man. This was wrong. He shouldn’t have been allowed to see him again. This was cheating, escaping justice. He had to hurt, right? That’s why he stayed in this pain for years, because it was right. It was the only way to fix it or make it better. He had to hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X dragged the brush in short swirls, the grey coils of Dr. Paris’  hair glowing against the dark colors of everything else in the canvas. As he filled in the shadows, the light against Dr. Paris’ skin, the fur around his hand as he stroked Pye, that smug satisfaction in his eye that he got when viewing the results of his successes, every wrinkle and crease in his face, a dark bittersweetness enveloped him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris was long dead. Yet, on canvas, he sat in his apartment, proud as ever, idly mussing Pye’s fur and admiring the fact that his work was continued on. X stood before the image, breath caught in his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It tore him apart inside. He wanted that guilt, shame, and regret. It was punishment. It was justice. He didn’t deserve to see him again, to paint, to have a life free of the Institute. He was dangerous. He was a monster, a cold, unfeeling hunter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he hated it. He wanted to be, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span>, something </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was this what his father would have wanted? Dr. Paris wasn’t vindictive. Would he have wanted this for X? Was his pain and guilt enough to make it right? Was he right for forcing himself into this?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands balled into fists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Paris wouldn’t have wanted this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had been offered a shot at redemption, at moving on, making Dr. Paris’ memory mean something, and he spat at it. Every attempt he made at trying to evoke justice did nothing but smear Dr. Paris’ values. It hurt the people he loved now. It hurt him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t working. He hated it. Dr. Paris would have hated it. All of the anger and fear and pushing away was wrong. All those years he could have made Dr. Paris proud, he threw it away for his own screwed up idea of making it right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 ran his hand through his hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you realize a truth, what are you supposed to do with it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was just another thing he couldn’t take back or undo. He couldn’t un-say what he said to Nick or Mr. Boswel, couldn’t change the past. It was too little, too late. The only thing he could do was just...not do it again. Try something else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t fix all of his mistakes. Maybe in a different world, he could have realized that he didn’t need to hurt sooner. But he didn’t, and he hurt himself and everyone he cared about instead. This could have been so simple, so easy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All he had to do was get out of the fortress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cage was open, the courser wilted to dust on the breeze. He could step out, approach the people he kept himself hidden away from. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could get out of it. He could stop hurting like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 tore his eyes away from the comforting face of the man he dare call his father. He stood in a dark apartment, where he had felt pain and loneliness, where he had locked himself away. In the dark walls shadows glowered over him, the light of day outside tauntingly peering in from windows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stood in his home, a place he had made his own with time and tears and so much fear, where he had felt a still, quiet joy. He’d felt this spectrum of emotions brighter than the shadows he jumped at, felt the lightness of friendship and the exasperated love of a pet owner. In the walls he’d covered in his own artworks, filled with simple joys even if he convinced himself they were only performative.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had made a home here. It held his sorrow and his happiness, his shadows and the brightness in his eyes that awakened as he perceived how okay everything was in that moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fields out there, down the hill and spanning for a mile, bloomed a green unlike the wasteland could house, like the emotions he was forbidden to express. Wind blew gently, clouds dark and broody with rain, the streets below quiet and asleep in the storm, and in this melancholy he found something alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The simple act of existing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had gotten out of it. He could stop hurting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>This was freedom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could be, try, something new. And it would be okay. Dr. Paris would want this. He wanted this. He wanted to run out of that fortress and finally see the world outside of the bonds and rules put on him. The freedom was chilling and bright, freezing the blood that flowed through his veins. He didn’t have to hurt. Every ounce of pain he’d held inside, let corrode him, encase him in rust, was unnecessary. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 sunk into a chair, unconcerned with the paint dripping and soaking into black fabric. He watched solemnly as the myriad of mixing colors dried against the cracks and wrinkles of his hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, it was necessary. He would have been wiped. They would have dragged him by the back of the neck and shoved him onto those spikes, erased every lesson Dr. Paris instilled in him. He wouldn’t have survived. He had to keep quiet, not give his agony a voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slow, his gaze left his hands, trailing to the door out to the Inn’s hall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Institute was down below, far away. He was up here, awake and aware and despite their best efforts, alive. In his own way, but his systems, mechanical or not, kept him existing and that was enough. He was alive and free and here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 pushed himself to his feet, a paint hand-print sticking to the arm of the chair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Piper was here, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything he had forced himself to believe for his own sanity was wrong. Hurting alone didn’t work. It sucked. It wasn’t productive, it made things worse, it hurt others - and beside this truth, a one he had known in his heart but refused to admit came to light. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had a family. It was weird, and broken, and crazy, but god d*mn it, it was his and he cared about it and it cared about him. Every little voice the Institute and his own insecurities planted in his mind were silenced by this truth, something loud and warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had discovered a truth. Piper liked the truth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After Dr. Paris died, he’d been lying to himself. He knew everything he thought was a lie. Piper was great at ferreting out the truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>X6 reached over across the window, petting Pye with the back of the hand not drenched in a miasma of color. He took a breath, centering himself and feeling a clear and calmness of mind unfamiliar to him. And with this breath, he headed out the door, down the hall to Piper’s place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d never done anything like this before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it was time to try something new. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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